We signed the papers at a Panera during my lunch break. She had coffee. I had soup. The notary was a woman named Pat who kept apologizing for the smell of her egg sandwich.
Then I went back to work. Answered emails. Sat through a two o'clock meeting about quarterly projections like nothing had happened.
That night I pulled a suitcase out of the closet to pack for a trip I didn't have. It still had the tag on it from when I flew to Houston three years ago to visit my sister before everything fell apart.
I hadn't gone anywhere since. Not really.
I remembered what our youth pastor used to say at Wednesday night church when I was sixteen. He said grief isn't the leaving. It's the refusing to let go of what already left.
I sat on the floor of my closet holding that little tag and felt like I'd been carrying it the whole time.
So I pulled it off. It took almost nothing.
I think I'd been waiting for someone to tell me it was okay to let go of something that was already gone.