I decide I will leave once the house is rented, expecting that it could take weeks—or longer. But I have forgotten that we live mere blocks from two hospitals and the university, and within days an incoming internal medicine resident has committed to renting the place, sight unseen and fully furnished, for the next year. It’s a big decision I’m making. And one I’m making all on my own. I’m giving up our home without consulting my husband. I have corresponded with Brad only by text or e-mail in the past weeks because I don’t know what to say to him. This is a decision we would have arrived at—or not—jointly in the past. But Brad can’t carry this house on the meager stipend he receives from the military or live here alone, and I can’t continue to carry on as we were on the off chance that something will improve. Somewhere along the way, our relationship has become an oligarchy. The house is quiet as I pack my clothes, then Brad’s, and then our personal effects—pictures and papers and prized books.
