Toward the end of February, a letter arrives, addressed to The Departed, from the State Department of Licensing. I get a funny feeling –  this envelope seems different than the usual “time to renew your tabs” things that usually come from the DOL.

Also, he hasn’t lived in at this address for 18 months, and though I suppose one could argue that since the house was technically half his for 14 of those months, the fact remains that he has had no legal claim to this address for the last four months. He signed it away, and was paid for his share.

I’d say that’s a little over the ten day requirement for notifying the DOL of an address change.

I hold up the envelope to the light. I can’t make out much – they’re good, these government employees – but I can make out a few words in large type quite clearly.

NOTICE OF DRIVER’S LICENSE SUSPENSION.

That would certainly explain why he was walking home with a laptop around dinnertime one evening.

I do a little bit of research, with the help of a lawyer friend, and discover that something happened at the beginning of January, right around the time he was posting caveman song lyrics on Facebook. We can’t see what happened, but it resulted in a court record.

Possibly a speeding ticket. Possibly a DUI. Possibly any number of things, but my lawyer friend says, those are the two likeliest things that would result in a suspended license: If he got a DUI, or neglected to pay a ticket.

I note that The Departed was seen walking home nearly three weeks before his license was suspended.

I also note that The Departed is not aware that his license is suspended, because the suspension came to me. What do I do?

Send it to his lawyer’s office, my friend tells me, and get a delivery receipt. Cover yourself.

I note that this plan will also result in another legal bill for The Departed, and decide that this is an excellent plan.

I only wish, as I forward the letter to The Departed’s attorney, that I knew why it had been sent to him in the first place.

I’m perplexed by this run-in with The Departed. We’ve seen him now three times since he left – although he has not seen us, each time. I have blocked him, his friends, and his children from seeing my Facebook page – actually, my former stepdaughter blocked me first, making it the first time she and I actually agreed on anything.

But I have another Facebook account, one that nobody knows about. The one that can see all the things certain people post for everyone in the world to see, except me.

I check his page. There seem to have been a lot of hikes in the fall, and then at the end of the year, suddenly silent except for some bizarre song lyrics about a caveman posted here and there. Attempts at deep thoughts, borrowed from others.

As with most people, there’s no bad news posted: That’s not what Facebook is for.

The only thing I’ve learned is that, at least for a while, he was getting out and doing things, something he steadfastly refused to do while we were married.

One evening in late January, The Child and I drive over to Whole Foods. It’s early evening, still light out but drizzly in typical Seattle fashion. We have to go to the other side of town to get there, on local roads.

Suddenly, The Child says, There He is. She points to The Departed.

He’s walking on the sidewalk, with his company laptop in a bag slung over his shoulder. He’s headed in the direction of the apartment he moved to when he left so abruptly.

That’s odd, I say. Why would he be walking with his laptop?

Maybe he wanted to use the WiFi at Starbucks, says The Child.

He has WiFi at home, I tell her.

Maybe he didn’t want to be at home, she says. Maybe he wanted a change of scenery.

Maybe, I say, but I also point out: That doesn’t seem like him. For eight years, he barely left our house.

It’s rather odd, we agree, but we are at a loss to figure it out.