Eleven months, twenty-two years ago, to someone whose name I haven’t said out loud in this house a single time since. It wasn’t a small thing that ended quietly — it was messy in ways I’ve spent two decades not thinking about on purpose, the kind of ending that made starting over feel less like healing and more like erasing. So I erased. Thoroughly. I built the rest of my life, the one my son actually knows, directly on top…