Caleb shrugged. “Then I can have paperwork tonight.”
We signed at the kitchen island where the Wellington had cooled into an untouched monument. After he left, I wrapped the entire dinner and drove it to the shelter on Fifth because I could not stand throwing it away. The woman at the intake door thanked me like I was doing something generous. I nodded and said nothing.
Then the real work began.
Escaping a lie requires logistics. Not the glamorous kind. Not rage-fueled revenge montage logistics either. Boring, granular, relentless tasks. Cancel the florist. Redirect mail. Photograph valuables. Call the utility companies. Check the attic for heirlooms. Sort tax documents. Decide which childhood artifacts are memory and which are evidence of how long you have been trying to curate a kinder version of people than they deserve.
I packed late into the night.