“I’m never moving with you again.” Nick, my then-boyfriend, stood over the shattered remains of his favorite mug, coconut oil pooling at his feet. I gripped the remains of the box that, until the bottom fell out, I swore I’d packed perfectly. We’d spent weeks before the big day bickering over everything, from how to pack our cocktail coupes to whether his Lego collection needed downsizing. By moving day, we were barely speaking.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered, as we picked up the shards of mug, coconut oil jar and (I was sure) our relationship.