I said there was another man because I thought that sentence would end the negotiations. Four times before, I had tried to leave. Each time Haris produced a plan: less work, more outings, a new flat. He sincerely carried out those plans. We would return from an outing, unpack our bag, and resume living in a silence that no change of address could remove. The fifth time I chose a lie.

I gave him no name. I said the name was unimportant, which sounded exactly like something a woman protecting someone would say. For the first time he offered no plan. He sat on the edge of the armchair while I packed my clothes to the sound of his breathing. I felt relief. That is the hardest part of this story to tell. Admitting the spoken lie is easier than admitting how peacefully I closed the door that evening.

Three days later he called a colleague who sometimes drove me home. Then he called the man who had bought my old bicycle. My colleague contacted me only after speaking to his wife. There was no curiosity in his voice; he was furious. My nonexistent lover had begun entering real homes. I realized I had left Haris a puzzle he would have to try to solve while I was already sleeping at my sister's.

We arranged to meet in the empty flat. I told him there had been nobody. He asked me not to comfort him. I repeated the truth and explained why I had invented an affair. For a long time he looked at my belongings stacked by the door. Then he fetched two glasses of water with the same movements that once began discussions about repairing our marriage. "Then we can try again," he said.

Now I had to say what I had escaped by inventing a much uglier story. I did not want to try. I was not waiting for a better offer or proof that he was a bad man. I wanted our marriage to end, and I was ashamed that my reason would never be enough for him. He pushed his glass away. "You could at least have left me my own story about it," he said. I had no answer that could repair that sentence.

In front of him I called my colleague and the man with the bicycle to tell them what I had done. Haris took no part in those conversations. When I lifted the last box, he did not ask where I was going. A week later he sent a message with a date for collecting my books. I replied only that I would come. I was still certain I had needed to leave. For the first time I was not trying to appear innocent because of it.