I don’t know what I was thinking when I packed the frying pan. As I dashed around the apartment that December afternoon, I packed several random items along with sentimental ones: a cluster of hangers; a photo album; my bikini and wool dress coat; a framed print I liked; the blanket my grandmother had given me when I was three years old; a yellow umbrella; my favorite coffee mug; and the heavy frying pan.

I remember my granddaughter’s fourth birthday party. I was there. So was my ex-husband and his girlfriend. I spent most of the time in the kitchen, avoiding them. When the cake was being served, I bolted out the door and into the safety of my car.