I walked back to the valet, got my car, and drove home in silence. I didn't speed; I drove with the precision of a surgeon.
When I got to the house—my house, the one I bought three years before I met her—I didn't sit on the couch and cry. I went straight to the garage and grabbed a roll of heavy-duty trash bags.
I started in the bathroom: her lotions, her seven different hair irons, the makeup that stained the counter. I swept it all into a bag. I didn't organize it. I didn't wrap the fragile items. If it broke, it broke.
I moved to the bedroom: her clothes, the shoes she made me buy, the vision board she had hanging on the wall that had pictures of yachts and mansions, but no pictures of us. It all went into the bags.
I worked for two hours straight, sweating, fueled by a cold, hard rage. I dragged the bags—twelve of them—out onto the front porch. I lined them up neatly.
Then I went to the guest room. Linda's overnight bag was there from the last time she stayed; I threw that on top of the pile.
At 10:30 p.m., I called a 24-hour locksmith. "I need my locks rekeyed," I told the dispatcher. "Emergency service. I'll pay double."
The guy arrived in 20 minutes. He was a burly guy named Mike. He looked at the pile of trash bags on the porch, then at me. "Bad night?" he asked.
"The worst," I said. "Or maybe the best. I haven't decided yet."
While he worked on the front door, I sat at the kitchen table and wrote the note. I went through five drafts. I wanted to write a manifesto. I wanted to list every dollar I spent, every insult I swallowed. I wanted to explain exactly why she was a terrible person.
But then I remembered Linda's voice: "He's just trying to manipulate you. He'll be begging."
Any emotion I showed would be fuel for them. Anger was attention; sadness was weakness. I needed to be a ghost.
I took a Sharpie and a piece of cardboard from one of her shoe boxes. I wrote three words:
Go do better.
Mike finished the locks. I paid him $350 cash.
"You the owner?" he asked, handing me the new keys.