I took extra assignments at work.
I stayed late even when I didn't need to.
Sometimes I sat in my car after pulling into our parking garage because going upstairs meant entering another silent evening.
Eventually, Sophie noticed.
“You don't have to stay at work until nine every night,” she told me once.
“I have deadlines.”
“You always have deadlines now.”
I heard accusation in her voice.
She probably heard rejection in mine.
That was how most conversations went near the end.
One person speaking.
The other person defending.
Neither person actually listening.
Then, one rainy Thursday in April, it finally happened.
We were arguing about something so insignificant that I don't even remember what started it.
A forgotten dinner reservation, maybe.
Or the fact that I hadn't answered one of her calls.
What I do remember is Sophie standing beside the kitchen counter with both hands wrapped around a glass of water.
Her face looked exhausted.
Not angry.
Just exhausted.
And instead of walking toward her, I said the sentence that ended our marriage.
“Maybe we shouldn't keep doing this.”
She looked at me.
“What does that mean?”
I stared at the floor.
“You know what it means.”
Her fingers tightened around the glass.
“You want a divorce?”
I didn't answer immediately.
That silence answered for me.
Sophie nodded slowly.
Then she asked something I've replayed in my head ever since.
“How long have you been leaving me before tonight?”
I had no response.
She waited.
When I still said nothing, she placed the glass in the sink.
“All right.”
That was it.
No screaming.
No broken dishes.
No dramatic confrontation.
Within three weeks, she had moved into a small apartment near Lincoln Square.
Less than two months later, our divorce became official.
I told myself it was mature.
Clean.
Necessary.
I told coworkers we had simply “grown apart.”
That phrase is convenient because it makes the destruction of a marriage sound like weather.
As though nobody made choices.
As though nobody failed.
After the divorce, I expected relief.
Instead, my apartment became unbearably quiet.
There was no second toothbrush beside mine.
No half-finished mug of tea on the counter.
No one asking whether I'd eaten dinner.
For the first time, I realized how many invisible things Sophie had done that made our life feel warm.
But pride is powerful.
So every morning, I woke up and repeated the same thing.
This was the right decision.
Then I went to work.
Came home.
Watched television I wasn't really watching.
Went to sleep.
And did it again.
