She knew the login.

At least, I thought she did.

I closed it.

At 11:00, I remembered her dentist appointment the following Tuesday.

I typed: Don’t forget Tuesday at 2.

Then deleted it.

At noon, the dry cleaner texted that Sienna’s dresses were ready.

I stared at the notification.

For years, I’d dropped off and collected her clothes because the shop was on my route home.

Except suddenly there was no route home.

No office.

No suits hanging behind my chair.

No wife asking whether I’d remembered hers.

By late afternoon, I’d applied for seven jobs and discovered something about myself I didn’t particularly like.

I hadn’t simply provided the money in our marriage.

I’d managed nearly everything.

Insurance.

Taxes.

Travel bookings.

Home repairs.

Passwords.

Appointments.

Renewals.

Retirement accounts.

Even the stupid water-filter subscription.

I used to joke that Sienna outsourced adulthood to me.

She would kiss my cheek and say, “That’s why I married you.”

At the time, I loved hearing it.

Now it bothered me.

Six years earlier, Sienna had been different.

She’d been halfway through a design program when we married.

Interior drafting, space planning, computer-assisted design.

She could look at an empty room and instantly talk about traffic flow and light as though the walls had failed an inspection.

Then I got promoted.

We moved.

Her credits didn’t transfer cleanly.

She said she’d return later.

I told her there was no rush.

Then came another promotion.

More money.

A bigger house.

Trips.

Restaurants.

Nice clothes.

I liked giving her those things.

And every year, “later” became easier.

I believed I was making her life comfortable.

Maybe I was.

But comfort can quietly become dependence before either person notices who’s carrying everything.

I wondered whether Sienna was thinking about that too.

—

On the second day, she still hadn’t called.

Her mother sent one message.

Sienna needs space. Please respect that.

I stared at it before replying: I will.

That afternoon, I boxed up the things Sienna had forgotten.

Shoes.

Her tablet charger.

Medication.

A sweater she wore almost every evening.

I grabbed an empty shipping box from my office closet and packed everything inside.

What I didn’t notice was the cream folder lying beneath the folded cardboard insert at the bottom.

—

On the third morning, I woke before my alarm.

I took down one mug.

Just one.

Coffee.

Laptop.

Another job application.

At 8:42, someone began hammering on the front door.

Not knocking.

Pounding.

I got up.

“Sienna?”

She pushed past me before I could say anything else.

Her hair was badly tied back, and she was still wearing the leggings she’d probably slept in.

In one hand was a thick cream folder.

I recognized it immediately.

And the moment I saw it, I knew why she’d come.

“How long?” she demanded.

I shut the door.

“Sienna…”

“How long were you planning to keep this from me?”

She threw the folder onto the dining table.

Pages slid halfway out.

My emails.

A college brochure.

Course-transfer notes.

Tuition estimates.

Software requirements.

And on top, in my handwriting:

SIENNA: PROGRAM OPTIONS + FINANCIAL PLAN

She pointed to the date on the first printed email.

“You were making an exit plan for me behind my back.”

“No.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.”

She grabbed one page.

“You contacted my old college.”

“Yes.”

“You asked which credits still count.”

I nodded.

“You asked what I’d need to finish.” Her voice rose. “And you never told me?”

I looked at the folder.

“That’s true.”

Sienna stared at me like she’d finally caught me doing something terrible.

“What was this?” she accused. “Some secret backup plan for when you got tired of paying for me?”

“No, Sienna. God… no…”

“Then what?”

I checked the time. If her schedule hadn’t changed since we’d last spoken, Elaine would be teaching that morning.

I pulled my keys from the bowl near the door.

Sienna laughed in disbelief.

“Where are you going?”

“To show you.”

“Show me what?”

I opened the door.

“The part I should’ve told you 14 months ago.”

For a moment, she didn’t move.

Then she grabbed the folder and followed me outside.

Neither of us spoke during the drive.

Not until I pulled into a parking lot Sienna clearly recognized.

She leaned forward.

“No.”

I parked.

She stared through the windshield at the community college she’d attended before we married.

“Rowan, what are we doing here?”

“You wanted to know how long I’ve been keeping something from you.”

I shut off the engine.

—

The design department occupied the second floor.

Sienna walked beside me with the folder pressed against her chest.

The receptionist looked up.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Elaine,” I said.

A voice came from the doorway behind her.

“Rowan?”

An older woman stepped out.

Then she saw Sienna and stopped.

For several seconds, no one spoke.

“Sienna?”

My wife blinked.

“Do I know you?”

Elaine smiled.

“I taught your second-year drafting class.”

Sienna stared.

Elaine glanced at the folder, then back at her.

“I remember your portfolio.”

Sienna’s grip loosened.

She hadn’t expected that.

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