Chapter 7: Luke’s List and Letting Go

5.

Luke made me a list.

He sent it as a Google doc, color-coded and thorough: things to do in the next month, little boxes to check off. It felt comforting, almost like someone was building me a bridge out of chaos.

Things to do in the coming month.

It started with the basics—change of address, cancel utilities, update emergency contacts. The logistics of leaving a life were staggering.

Getting a visa, finding a lawyer—those went without saying.

He even included links to immigration attorneys and embassy websites, highlighting deadlines and phone numbers.

He even listed a long row of must-try restaurants.

Each one had a Yelp link and a note—"Try the dumplings," "Don’t skip dessert," "Order the noodles extra spicy." It made the future feel more like an adventure, less like an ending.

[Chinese food abroad isn’t good.]

He added a little winking emoji. It was a reminder that not everything had to be perfect.

[Really.]

I could almost hear the smile in his voice.

I gladly accepted.

I printed the list, stuck it to my fridge with a cat magnet, and started checking off items one by one. There was power in getting things done, even little things.

I ate at each restaurant on his list, one by one.

Sometimes alone, sometimes with my old friend Sarah. We’d order too much and laugh about it, taking pictures to send to Luke.

Living alone didn’t seem so hard.

For the first time in ages, I caught myself humming along to the radio. The apartment felt bigger, cleaner, like I’d finally exhaled.

Every day I ate, shopped at Target, then packed my luggage.

Target’s bright aisles were soothing, the smell of popcorn and laundry detergent oddly comforting. I picked up travel-sized toiletries, a new set of headphones, a box of Honey Nut Cheerios for the plane.

The day I moved out of the divorce house, Derek suddenly messaged me.

His name flashed across my screen just as I zipped up the last suitcase. My heart did a weird little dance.

[You haven’t called me at all. Don’t you miss me?]

The words felt needy, petulant. I stared at them, thumb hovering over "block."

He took Madison on a trip.

His Instagram was full of beach photos and five-star hotel check-ins. I scrolled past them quickly.

Said he wanted the little girl to see the world.

The words echoed, sharp as glass. He never called me little, not since high school.

[Not obedient.]

He sent again.

Then a photo.

The image loaded—Derek and Madison on a ski lift, bundled up and grinning, mountains in the background. I scrolled past, numb.

[This place is nice. Should I bring you here for our third anniversary too?]

It was a dig, meant to provoke. I ignored it.

I really wanted to block him like I did Madison.

But since I still needed to go to the county clerk’s office for the divorce decree, I let it go.

I gritted my teeth, remembering Luke’s list: Stay focused. Don’t pick at old wounds.

In the next half month, I dealt with my jewelry and bags.

I posted some on Poshmark, donated others to the women’s shelter downtown. It felt good to shed the past, piece by piece.

Went to the hospital for a check-up.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as I sat in the waiting room, scrolling through BuzzFeed quizzes on my phone.

Made sure I wasn’t pregnant.

The nurse’s gentle smile made me feel safe. The relief when the test came back negative was like a weight lifting off my chest.

Finally, I sorted out all the assets Derek had entrusted to me over the years.

Bank statements, car titles, keys to storage units. I organized them into folders, labeled everything, and dropped it off with his attorney’s receptionist—no note, no explanation.

The night before going to the county clerk’s office, Derek came back.

I heard his key in the lock, the familiar thud of his boots in the hallway. My heart thudded, uncertain.

He called me.

The ringtone echoed through the apartment, sharp and insistent. I answered on the third ring, bracing myself.

“Emmy, you moved out?”

His voice was casual, almost amused. I pictured him standing in the empty living room, looking around at the blank walls.