Emily took a picture of the blouse with its bow untied. Then, taking care not to disturb the rest of the pile, she took more pictures—bow tied, bow untied, sleeves folded across the front, as if the shirt were daring her to decide. And finally, gone.

She made short work of three boxy double-breasted blazers (one red, one black, one navy). First lining them up like soldiers. Click. Then, one at a time, arm bent in mock salute. After that, she whipped through a pile of dresses, dumping them all, including the bridesmaid’s gown she’d worn to Becca’s wedding.

She was stuffing the last dress into the garbage bag when she heard gravel crunch in the driveway. She stepped to the window and raised the shade. Frank had returned. His SUV was parked in the driveway below her. The driver’s-side door opened and Frank got out.

From above, she could see the bald spot that he took pains to comb over. He must have bought something, because he popped the trunk and was bending down, reaching for the bulkhead door to their basement. The metal door creaked open.

Before Frank turned back to his car, he glanced up at her and waved. She waved back and dropped the shade. She really didn’t want to see what he was bringing in.

She snapped another picture of her barely diminished clothing pile, and then picked up a turquoise zippered jumpsuit that she’d bought at a resale shop in Venice Beach. She’d been a different person back then, just out of college and getting her teaching degree. Frank was an idealistic, newly minted attorney, committed to human rights and equality, about to start what would be a two-year stint working in the Massachusetts public defender’s office. Venice Beach had been fast changing from a neighborhood of aging hippies and secondhand stores to one with hipsters, yoga studios, and oxygen bars. She wondered if Frank remembered the amazing sex they’d had, camped out on a friend’s covered porch overlooking the canal. Sex-without-thinking sex. Sex-without-checking-the-calendar-and-taking-your-temperature sex.

That had been years ago, back when she assumed that having a baby would just happen. Back when she’d never have considered pussy bows and blazers. Never dreamed how fast Frank would fill their house with more and more stuff.

If only he’d let her work her organizing magic on his clutter, Emily thought as she eyed the bulging drawers of his bureau. The door to his closet could no longer shut, either. Frank’s “lawyer suits,” hanging in garment bags squished at one end of the closet, would have so much more room to breathe if he’d only get rid of . . .