She did not steal the good silverware.  

No, they agreed that he’d keep the six-piece, eight-setting dinnerware set and she’d keep the silverware—which, unlike the plates, cups, and bowls, could be packed into one small flat box. He said he was happy with the arrangement. She was the one who’d chosen both for the wedding registry, but he said he liked the heavy black stoneware and was indifferent to knives and forks. Besides, he still had his silverware set from before she moved in; she’d never had more than a few mismatched pieces.  

They agreed that she should take what she’d brought with her, but everything else they were careful to divide up fairly, pragmatically: He kept the furniture they’d bought together, she took the blue table runner and placemats; he kept the food processor and the Santoku knife; she took the yogurt maker and the mandolin. He kept the rescue cat, who was more attached to him anyway. It was just as well; the orchid she took didn’t survive the move.  

They didn’t think to draw up a list; they just agreed, amicably, saying, Do you want this? No, you take it; I won’t use it anyway. You should keep this one. Sure, that’s fair. And it took no time at all. 

So she’s stunned when, two years later, he asks: Hey, by the way, did you take the good silverware? My parents asked and I couldn’t remember. 

The mistake was in taking the steak knives. She’s sure of it now. She had no use for them; he was the only one who ate meat. She should’ve remembered to take them out of the box, but she was too distracted, in too much of a hurry, to think of it at the time. They’d never used the new set except for company, so she’d forgotten that they even had steak knives.  

And clearly he’d forgotten, too, if it was his parents who first noticed. I thought you had steak knives? she pictures them looking down at the kitchen drawer. Wait, are these your old ones? What happened to the good silverware, the ones Aunt Sylvie got you? 

The good silverware…I can’t remember. I guess she must’ve taken them? 

You’re not sure? So she took them without telling, like a thief? she imagines them thinking, though they would never speak so crudely. After all, that’s the definition of theft, isn’t it. What else did she steal?  

She stares at her phone, the seconds ticking up below her ex’s name. She has to sit down, but then she immediately has to stand up. 

So they think I stole the silverware—our silverware? You agreed that you’d take the dishes and I’d take the silverware! What do you mean, you couldn’t remember? Your parents think I stole them!  

Why are you shouting? What’s the big deal?  

Listen, if you want them back, I’ll pack them up and mail them to you. I’ll do it right now. 

No, no, I don’t need the silverware, he laughs. They’ve already emailed the aunts to add it to the registry. Like, “Help! He’s been left with no silverware!”  

The original reason he’s calling is not the silverware but his upcoming wedding, to which she is not invited. Just wanted to let you know. If she were getting married again, she’d have invited him to the wedding. That’s what she was thinking when he brought up the silverware.  

So maybe their divorce wasn’t as amicable or fair as she believed? Maybe he was just being polite and non-confrontational when he said he’d take the dishes over the silverware, knowing that it was more practical for her to transport. Or maybe he just wanted to get it over with and consented to anything she said. 

A friend going through a divorce now says that it’s thrown everything he’s believed about their marriage into question; he feels blindsided by his wife’s unhappiness. But when her ex had asked for a divorce, she was not surprised; she was sad but clear-eyed about their marriage. Yet now, everything she’s believed about their divorce has been thrown into question. 

The news of his remarrying was long expected. For the first year or so they spoke regularly, sometimes about filing papers and taxes but sometimes about his dating successes and disappointments. She took this as a sign of their continued friendship. She sees now how naïve she was, how arrogant, assuming goodwill extending to the in-laws.  

Still, neither his parents accusing her of theft or their informing their relatives is, in and of itself, shocking. Their child had been robbed blind! Rather, it’s his laughing about it to her, his expecting her to laugh with him, that draws blood.  

You think it’s funny that your family thinks I’m a thief? What else do they think I stole? 

Oh, come on. What do you care what they think of you? When did you ever care? 

The point of the serrated blade twists into her side. What else do they think of her? What else does he think of her? Aren’t they still friends, after so many years? Maybe they never were, not even back in school, years before they were a couple. Maybe he was just being polite and non-confrontational all along. Maybe he didn’t change his mind two years ago but just kept quiet until he couldn’t wait any longer for her to change her mind as well.  

She hasn’t heard any more about the silverware, or about anything else, from him in years. She knows that none of them thinks of her anymore, but if they ever were to, it would be this last image of her as the silverware thief. She still has the steak knives he didn’t want back. Why didn’t she send the entire set anyway, whether he wanted them or not? Sometimes she opens the box to admire the unused knives, their points lined up perfectly, their tiny teeth gleaming, each narrow blade a mirror.  

She picks one up, testing its heft, touching the tip to her left index finger. It is so very clean and so very sharp, like a surgical instrument. As if she could cut that word, thief, out of herself with it. As if she could cut herself out. It’s a comforting thought.