Chapter 12
Lauren
The sound of tires crunching up the driveway sent a jolt through her.
Tom was home.
Lauren wiped her palms on her jeans and hurried to the door. When she opened it, the sight of him on the porch—broad-shouldered, familiar, tired—broke something loose inside her chest.
He dropped the duffel on the step and reached for her, and she stepped into his arms automatically, the way a body remembers its own heartbeat. His coat was cold against her cheek, but underneath was the solid, beloved heat of him.
Her pain, her anger, her sleepless night—everything melted in an instant. She could breathe again.
“I missed you,” she whispered into his chest.
This was what she'd been aching for all day—Tom's strength surrounding her, making her feel safe and wanted and loved.
He pressed his nose into her hair. His hand cupped the back of her head. “Hey. It’s fine. No harm done.”
She pulled back to look at him. His face was soft. Warm. Affectionate. This was her husband—the man she’d built a life around, the man who held her steady.
Tom’s thumb brushed her cheek. “I knew once you calmed down, you’d see you overreacted.”
The words slid into her like cold water under a door.
She blinked, waiting—waiting for the apology, the I’m sorry, the understanding.
It didn’t come. Oh. The small, fragile warmth inside her fizzled out.
He wasn’t apologizing.
He wasn’t sorry.
She stepped back. Just a few inches, but enough that his arms dropped.
Tom didn’t flinch. Didn’t falter. He simply bent, picked up the duffel, and walked inside like the house. He set the bag down, then turned.
“Come here,” he said.
He guided her to the sofa with a warm palm at her elbow and waited until she’d sat before taking the armchair opposite her.
“We need to talk,” he said, voice level. He folded his hands, composed and maddeningly calm. “I’ve tried to ignore all the crafting and the handmade everything, but… it’s too much.”
Her mouth opened, but nothing came.
He sighed. “I can’t be married to someone like this, Lauren.”
The world went very still. Very quiet.
"You can't be married to me?” she asked quietly.
“That’s not what I said,” he sounded irritated now. But it was. It was what he’d said.
Crafting wasn’t just a hobby. It wasn’t just a phase. It wasn’t something she could “tone down” without ripping out the seams of her own being.
Tom was frowning at her. “Lo, come on. How are we supposed to raise kids if you’re still acting like one?”
Her heart felt like it tore down the middle. He couldn’t be married to her.
She could pretend. She could pretend that it wasn’t who she was. She would do that for him—God help her, she wanted to.
But she wouldn’t change, not really. So in a year, five years, ten…
They would end up right back here.
She looked at him—her husband, her home, the man she’d built her world around.
She thought of the quilt. Of how it felt when he’d put it aside.
She felt that same sick drop inside her now—the falling, the disbelief, the missed step that came from trusting someone and being rejected.
Sitting here, she felt like an intruder inside her own life. The person she was and the person he wanted her to be could never coexist.
Because the woman who made DIY wreaths and embroidered pillows and poured her heart into homemade gifts—this was who she was.
And that was who he couldn’t be married to.
Her throat tightened. She loved him. God, she loved him. She stared at him, the man she’d stitched a life with, the man she’d chosen again and again…
And understood that the choice was no longer hers.
He had already made it.
And in that breath—in that terrible, crystalline moment—she understood.
She could shrink herself, break herself, to try to fit the shape he wanted. Or she could leave.
The pain felt clean, sharp, impossible to ignore. It was the feeling of her heart breaking.