“You’re taking everything?” Rachel’s voice rose to a near scream.

“Not the house,” I clarified. “That belongs to James. Just everything in it.”

By noon, the living room was empty except for the built-in shelves.

By 2:00 p.m., the kitchen contained nothing but the cabinets and countertops.

By 4:00 p.m., even the curtain rods had been removed.

James alternated between pleading and threatening.

“You’ll regret this,” he hissed while the workers carefully packaged the surround sound system. “I’ll sue you.”

“On what grounds?” I asked quietly. “We agreed in writing. No division of property. You keep what’s yours. I keep what’s mine.”

As the workers began loading the last truck, a small panel van pulled up. Two men in coveralls approached the house.

“Mrs. Turner, we’re here for the wallpaper removal.”

Rachel, who had been sitting silently on the floor since the dining chairs had been taken, looked up in horror.

“The wallpaper. Custom printed,” I explained. “Designed specifically for this house. Cost nearly $8,000, my company.”

“You can’t take the walls,” James shouted.

“Not the walls,” I corrected. “Just what’s on them. Like you said, I’m taking all my personal belongings.”

I left them standing in an empty house with bare walls and exposed outlets where my designer sconces had hung.

The house looked older than before I’d transformed it. All the flaws now visible without my carefully placed distractions.

Two weeks later, James called. His voice had lost the confidence that had once attracted me.

“Lauren, please,” he began. “Rachel left. She said she couldn’t live like this. We need your help.”

“We?” I asked.

“I meant I need your help. I was wrong about everything.”

“Wrong about what specifically?” I asked, though I knew exactly what he meant.

He sighed. “About us, about Rachel, about the house. I didn’t realize how much work you’d put into making it beautiful. Rachel kept complaining. Nothing was good enough. The secondhand furniture I bought looks terrible. She said she didn’t sign up to live in a dorm room.”

“That sounds difficult,” I said, feeling nothing.

“Could you, would you consider coming back, or at least helping me make this place livable again?”

I thought about the furniture now arranged in my new apartment. I’d already sold most of it.

Too many memories.

The proceeds had funded a complete renovation of my new space with pieces that better reflected who I was now.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” I said. “But I wish you luck with your decorating.”

I hung up before he could respond, then blocked his number.

The divorce had been finalized a week earlier, ending our marriage officially.

Some spaces, once emptied, should stay that way.

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