The scene could not be more different from Tucson, where the landscape is red and rocky, another planet, with more stars in the sky than I have seen anywhere.

On my laptop screen I can see the windows of my house, the door, the periwinkle siding and the poor excuse for a flower bed — really just a moat of mulch. I can see the front walk my husband will come up in his suit and overcoat. It will be around 6 p.m., already dark. The children and I might see him through the storm door, and my son, only 3 in January 2016, might yell “Daddy!” and run to greet him.

That cold winter morning, someone from Google drove by and took this photo. Two-and-a-half years later, my marriage became untenable. Do I need to explain why? Do I need to say here what happened, to whom and by whom? It doesn’t matter.

In the version of my house that still exists online, January 2016, I can’t see the pairs of my husband’s shoes piled under the dining room table or his teacups forgotten around the house, brown-ringed, but I know they are there. The books he’s currently reading — so many books at once — are stacked by the old recliner, the one in which we rocked our son countless times.

My husband’s shampoo is in the shower, his razor and shaving cream by the sink. His toothbrush and pillow are still upstairs; he doesn’t begin sleeping on the couch until two summers later, and that version of our house will never be online — the version where we live together but not together.

People — other people, people like me — have questions for Google Maps : “How do I remove my home image?” “How do I update the picture of my house?” “ How do I unblur my house ?”