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Then the tiny fiber optics leading into my computer lit a bonfire of skin tones. I hadn’t had this kind of privacy since the advent of high-speed Internet. I’d look around again at the empty house. The computer sat on a white desk that was the painted-over dining table of my first marriage its power light glowed off and on, the closest thing to another pulse in the house.Īlone, I’d sit down and scroll through used cars. The kitchen and no one to torture with new ways to eat kale. An expanse of rug and no board game being played on it. Inside the house, nothing looked the same. “You,” she said with finality, “ alone.” ¶ As an ad guy, I could have campaigned for a thousand words and not nailed the truth like that. She consulted her notes, then looked me over. When they drove away, she walked up in grown-up shoes and glasses, holding a clipboard. ¶ The girl lurked in the front hedge of azaleas to watch our first custody exchange: my wife’s SUV pulling up in the drive, the hug, the seat belt, the school uniforms buttoned up on hangers. I was approaching 40, and the terms of my second marriage were being renegotiated from soul mates to a joint-custody arrangement. In the end, it was the girl across the street who understood the situation most clearly, the tiny one who dressed like a middle-aged Realtor and carefully studied my family’s demise. (Illustration by The Washington Post fish by iStockphoto)