I want to tell you I was calm. I was not calm. I packed two suitcases in forty-five minutes. I stripped my wedding dress off its hanger and I left it in a crumpled pile on the bedroom floor because I did not want it in either one of our houses anymore. I took the ring off. I didn't throw it at him. I put it on the nightstand, next to his phone, next to the text from Caroline asking if he was actually going through with it. He sat on the edge of the bed and cried, and he said he loved me, and he said I didn't understand, and he said all the things men say when they are losing something they did not realize they had until the moment it walked out the door. I called an Uber at 2:58 AM. I asked the driver, who was polite and sleepy and named Carlos, to take me to my parents' apartment on the Upper West Side. He glanced at my red eyes. He said, "Rough night?" I said, "I'll tell you in the car." And I did. I told Carlos everything. That was the first person I told. He drove in silence for most of the trip. And when he pulled up outside my parents' building, he turned around in his seat and said something I think about once a week.