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.
