Chapter 4
Four
Caroline
Richard filed for divorce the very next day.
Not a week, not a month to cool off or try counseling or let us catch our breath.
I got an email from an attorney I’d never heard of, subject line: “Dissolution of Marriage: Carter v. Carter.” There was a PDF attached, and that’s how I found out I wasn’t just losing my husband—I was also losing my house, my credit, and every ounce of security I’d spent a lifetime protecting.
The lawyer called that afternoon to “walk me through next steps.” He sounded like a kid, fresh out of law school, all earnestness and no empathy.
He explained that Richard’s business was a separate asset, that our accounts were “commingled,” and that it would be “advisable” for me to move out within thirty days to avoid escalation.
I could barely hear him over the thud in my chest.
“I’m not leaving,” I said. “This is my house.”
But Richard had already changed the online passwords, already removed my name from everything that mattered.
The only thing I got was a monthly allowance—enough to pay rent on a shoebox apartment in a neighborhood I’d never even driven through, plus health insurance if I didn’t miss a single payment.
I spent the next week in a trance, packing my life into boxes and pretending not to notice the “For Sale” sign staked in the front yard.
Adele helped, but she was numb too. We played old sitcoms in the background and said things like “it’s just stuff” and “we can buy new towels,” but it wasn’t true and we both knew it.
The day the moving truck came, I walked through every room, touching the doorknobs, the window ledges, the tiny dent in the hallway from when Adele crashed her bike indoors. I memorized every crack and scuff, because once I shut that door, I knew I’d never see any of it again.
The movers were efficient, almost surgical. They loaded everything I owned into three crates, then handed me a clipboard to sign. I held the pen so hard it left an imprint on my thumb.
Richard didn’t show up. Didn’t call, didn’t even text. The only thing he left behind was a stack of mail with my name on it, rubber-banded together.
I didn’t cry. Not then.
The new apartment was small, bright, and smelled like someone else’s curry. The building was old but clean, and the landlord looked at me like he couldn’t believe a woman my age was starting over alone.
Adele helped me unpack the essentials. We set up my bed, my coffee maker, and the box of photos that had made the cut. She slept on the couch that night, and in the morning, we walked to a nearby bakery and split a cinnamon roll in the parking lot, because the furniture wasn’t even in place yet.
After she left, I walked the perimeter of the apartment, circling like a dog looking for a place to settle. It was all so new and small and silent.
I tried to imagine a future where this place felt like home.
I tried not to imagine Richard in his new life, with his new baby, and his new wife.
I made myself coffee and sat by the window, staring out at the city.
The mug was warm, the air cool. For a second, it was almost peaceful.
But then I looked around and realized: This wasn’t a fresh start. It was a free fall, and there was no one to catch me.
I drank the coffee, and waited for morning.