Then another one came in.
Denise, don’t start something you can’t finish.
I read that one twice. Then I set the phone down on the nightstand, and I didn’t answer.
For the first time in a very long time, I didn’t fix it.
Sunday morning, I drove back to the house. Not because I had changed my mind. Because I needed to be clear.
The street looked the same as always. Quiet lawns trimmed, flags hanging from front porches, a couple walking their dog past the mailbox. Normal. That word almost made me angry.
I parked in the driveway and sat there for a second, engine still running. Greg’s truck was gone. That didn’t surprise me. He had probably gone out early trying to get ahead of whatever was already starting to slip.
I turned off the car and stepped out.
The front door felt heavier when I pushed it open. Inside, the house smelled faintly like grilled meat and stale beer, the aftermath of last night still sitting in the air. A paper plate on the counter, a half-empty bowl of chips, a red napkin crumpled near the sink.
I stood there for a moment just looking.
This had been my space. Every detail in it had my hands on it somewhere. The cabinets I picked, the rug I argued for, the small crack in the tile near the fridge I had meant to fix but never got around to.
And now it felt like I was already a guest.
I walked upstairs without turning on any lights. The bedroom door was half open, the bed unmade. Greg’s side rumpled, mine untouched from the night before. I didn’t linger. I went straight to the closet.
I didn’t take everything that was important. Just what was mine.
A suitcase from the top shelf. My clothes. A few pairs of shoes. My jewelry box. The small metal tin where I kept documents. Passport, birth certificate, insurance papers. On the dresser, my phone charger. I coiled it neatly and dropped it in the bag.
I moved through the room methodically. No rushing, no second-guessing. This wasn’t anger. This was a decision.
Downstairs, I grabbed my laptop from the desk in the corner, the one I had used for years to handle invoices, payroll notes, vendor emails. Next to it sat a small external hard drive. I hesitated for half a second. Then I picked it up too. Not to take anything that wasn’t mine, just to make sure I had what I needed.
I left everything else exactly where it was.
When I walked back out the front door, I didn’t look around again. I just closed it behind me.
Back at Paula’s, I sat at the small desk in her spare room and opened my laptop. For a long minute, I just stared at the screen. This was the part that mattered. Not what I had said, not how I had left. This was what I did next.
I opened my email, started with a blank message to vendors first. I kept it simple, professional, clear.
Effective immediately, I will no longer be handling communications or administrative support for Harlo Home Solutions. Please direct all future inquiries to Greg Harlo.
No emotion, no explanation. Just the truth.
I sent a few of those. Then payroll. Then a short message to the outside service we used for employee checks. Same tone, same clarity.
Then I closed the laptop.
My heart was beating a little faster now. Not panic. Just awareness.
I picked up my phone. Three new messages, all from Greg.
I opened the first.
Where are the vendor confirmations for Monday?
Second: I can’t get into the payroll system. It’s asking for a code.
Third: Call me now.
