Chapter 38
Tom
The frame sat on the desk beside him, the paint long since dried into streaks and blotches that looked only vaguely like roses. It was ugly. Uneven. A mess of good intentions and clumsy execution.
Tom lifted the print. The photo of Lauren on last year’s Christmas morning glowed up at him—her surrounded by an explosion of color and lights and handmade ornaments, joy radiating out of her like warmth. The version of her he had tried so hard to dim.
His throat tightened.
She was beautiful. Earnest, bright, full-hearted.
He picked up the frame . The painted roses looked worse under the office lighting than they had in the craft room—muddy petals, wobbly outlines, a nervous man’s heart smeared across cheap wood. A part of him wanted to throw it out and start over.
But Lauren wouldn’t. Lauren would offer the imperfect version, the heartfelt version, the version that said: I tried my best because loving you mattered.
Tom slid the photo into the back of the frame. It settled behind the glass, aligned and centered. Her smile shone out at him through a border of smeared, streaky roses.
Something in his chest cracked open.
He crossed the room to his drafting table. The snow globe was already there, glitter drifting lazily inside the jar, lights from the window scattering silver sparks over the steel surface.
He set the frame beside it.
The two objects looked absurd in the office’s stark geometry. Handmade chaos invading a world designed to be safe and controlled.
Lauren’s photo caught the light.
The snow globe shimmered beside it.
Color bloomed in the gray room.
Tom touched the edge of the frame with one fingertip.
He sat down at the drafting table as the glitter settled and Lauren’s smile held steady inside the frame.
Tom couldn’t work. Couldn’t concentrate. The ache in his chest had teeth.
He’d been at his desk for nearly an hour. Plans were open on one monitor, spreadsheets on another—clean lines, tidy numbers, a life arranged in crisp black and white.
He couldn’t look at any of it.
All he could see was the frame and the snow globe—her smile behind streaked paint, her joy suspended in glitter. His wife. His whole world.
He shoved back from the desk, the wheels of his office chair rolling sharply over the polished floor.
The winter light leaked through the windows in a pale, washed-out glow. Art that was his father’s minimalist taste hung on the wall of his office, cold and dull. His reflection stared back at him in the framed certificates and awards.
None of it mattered. Lauren mattered.
He pulled out a sheet of paper and picked up his pen.
His hand hovered. Hovered.
His chest felt too tight to breathe.
He closed his eyes.
Then he put the pen to paper.
He needed her to understand. He didn’t want her despite her love of crafting. He wanted her because of it. Because that was who she was. And who she was was perfect.
The words came out uneven. Stopping, starting, stopping again.
When he finally stopped writing, his hand ached. His chest ached even more.
He sat back, staring at the crooked lines. The uneven slant of his handwriting. The rawness bleeding between the words he’d finally let himself admit.
A confession.