Chapter 18 Coming Home
~Felicity~
The Uber pulled away, leaving me standing in my own driveway with my suitcase and a heart that felt too big for my chest. The house looked the same—white colonial, black shutters, the garden I’d planted three springs ago—but something felt different. I think it was me.
I could see warm light spilling from the front windows. Caden’s car was in the garage, but no sign of Jessica’s SUV. Good. I wasn’t ready for that particular brand of drama tonight.
My key turned easily in the lock, and I stepped inside to the smell of something familiar. Something that made my throat tighten with memory.
“Felicity?” Caden’s voice came from the kitchen, cautious and hopeful.
“It’s me.”
Dropping my suitcase by the door, I followed the scent toward the back of the house. He was standing by the stove, wooden spoon in hand, looking like he’d been caught doing something he'd get in trouble for.
“You’re cooking,” I said, surprised by how my voice sounded—smaller than I intended.
“Yeah—I…I thought our taco dish could be a good way to—" he paused, almost searching for the words.
"I don't know. I guess—it seemed like a good welcome home. Now it feels like…” He trailed off, gesturing helplessly at the pan.
“Um. Well I don't know—so, I thought maybe you’d be hungry.” He was nervous.
I stared at him. At the clean kitchen, the fresh flowers on the counter, the two forks laid out on a single plate. Just like we used to do—when we were happy.
The flowers weren’t white roses. They were vibrant—orange mixed with purple.
I wasn't sure what the flowers were, but they were beautiful.
I could see there was eucalyptus and some baby's breath mixed in.
It was a splattering of colors. It felt like someone had paid attention instead of just checking off a box.
“Where’s Macy?”
His face darkened. “Jessica picked her up early. She… there was a situation.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak yet. The disappointment hit harder than I expected. That felt like a surprise. I’d been looking forward to seeing her, wanted to make sure she didn't think this whole thing was her fault. Because it wasn't.
“She wanted to be here,” Caden continued quickly. “She was really upset about leaving. She wanted to apologize to you. About the purse.”
“She doesn’t need to apologize for anything.” The words came out sharper than I meant them to. “She’s eleven, Caden. This was never about her.”
“I know.” He set down the spoon and turned to face me fully. “I know that. I know I screwed everything up. I know I made it worse when you tried to tell me too."
We stood there in the kitchen where this all started, the same kitchen where I’d watched my husband give away the one thing I’d asked for, where I’d finally found my voice and used it to tell him how invisible I felt.
I touched the flowers gently. “These are beautiful.”
“Macy picked them out. For you. She spent twenty minutes at the flower shop making sure they were perfect.” His voice was soft. “She said the white roses you usually get are pretty, but these ones were happy. Like you.”
My throat closed up. An eleven-year-old had put more thought into flowers for me than my husband had in years. That stung.
“I got your text,” I said finally. “About my birthday.”
He nodded. “I didn’t know if I should… you said not to call or text, but I couldn’t let the day pass without…”
“Thank you.” I surprised myself by meaning it.
“How was Miami?”
“Good.” I touched the strap of my purse, thinking of the spa, beach, shopping, the women who’d adopted me for a night. The letter and the postcard I’d written to myself. “Really good, actually. No—that's wrong. It was amazing.”
Something shifted in his expression. Relief, maybe. But fear too?
“I’m glad,” he said quietly. “You deserved that.”
The silence stretched between us, heavy with everything we hadn’t said yet. I could feel the conversation coming, the one we’d been building toward for months. Maybe years.
I walked over to the island and set down my purse, my movements deliberate and slow. I was stalling, and we both knew it. But I needed to take a breath and gather myself, to find the words for what felt like the most important conversation of my life.
“The house looks good,” I said, taking in the spotless counters, the absence of his usual clutter. “Did you clean?”
“Top to bottom.” He almost smiled. “Twice, actually. I kept finding things I’d missed.”
“Like what?”
He paused, looking like he was nervous to say. “Your coffee mug. You know, the one I gave you for your promotion? I—um, I found it buried under a stack of paperwork and things on my desk. I’d been drinking my coffee right next to it for well, I don't know how long, without seeing it.”
Well, I guess I knew where my mug went. I’d searched everywhere for it the other day, coming up empty handed. “I used to use that mug every morning,” I said quietly. “I couldn't figure out where it went. I couldn’t find it anymore.”
His face fell. “I’m sorry.”
I scoffed. “Feels like quite the metaphor, doesn’t it?” I looked at him directly. “Me, buried under your stuff. You, drinking your coffee right next to me every morning without really seeing me.”
He didn’t answer, but I saw the truth of it hit him.
“Caden,” I started, then stopped. My hands were shaking.
“What is it?”
“I can’t do this anymore.” The words fell out of me like stones. “I can’t keep pretending that a dinner and some flowers and a heartfelt letter are going to fix six years of me being invisible in my own marriage.”
His face went pale. “Felicity—”
“Wait. You need to let me finish.” I held up a hand, surprised by my own steadiness. “I’m not saying I don’t love you. I’m not saying I want a divorce. But I am saying that something has to fundamentally change, or I'm done.”
He nodded slowly, like he’d been expecting this. Maybe he had.
“I’ve spent so much time making myself smaller,” I continued, the words flowing now like water through a broken dam.
My voice gravelly, like cracks creating breaks across that dam.
“Making excuses for you. Telling myself 'He's just busy, just stressed, things will get better when the next crisis passed, or the next deal closed. ' But they never did, did they?”
“No,” he said quietly. “They didn’t.”
“Can you even imagine what it's like to be married to someone who remembers every detail of the things around him except for the details around his wife?” My voice cracked. “To watch you bend over backward for others, for your clients, for your work—but not for me?”
“I didn’t realize—”
“I know! That’s the problem!” The words exploded out of me. I knew I was yelling. I don't usually yell. But I couldn't control it. “You didn’t realize. For years, Caden. You didn’t realize that I was right next to you…drowning.”
Tears were streaming down my face now, but I couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop.
“I used to feel so loved by you. I was seen. Remember the times we used to go for hikes? Or when you would wake me early for breakfast so we could watch the sun come up together? Or what about when you surprised me that first year with tickets to see Billy Joel?”
His eyes filled. “I remember.”
“Where did that man go? When did that man disappear? When did I become just another item on your to-do list, something to be managed by your assistant?”
“I don’t know,” he whispered. “I lost myself somewhere. In work, in trying to prove something after the company almost went under. I thought I was doing it for us, for our future, but I got so lost in saving everything else that I forgot to save us.”
“Let's be clear—You didn’t lose me,” I said fiercely. “You forgot me. There’s a difference.”
His tears were flowing now too, and something in my chest cracked open at the sight of it.
“I know,” he said. “God, Felicity, I know. And I’m so fucking sorry.
" He pressed his thumb and forefinger into his eyes as his shoulders began to shake. "I’m sorry for the purse, I’m sorry for the birthdays and anniversaries I missed—and all the gifts I delegated.
I’m sorry for making you feel like you had to fight for space in your own marriage, in our lives.
I’m sorry for not seeing what Jessica was doing, for not protecting you—for not protecting us and what we have—had. I’m sorry for all of it.”
“I don’t want you to just be sorry,” I said, my voice breaking completely. “I want you to be different.”
“I know. I am different.” He stepped closer, and I didn’t step back. “I can’t undo what I’ve done, but I can promise you that I see myself now and what I'd become. I see you now. Really see you. And I will never, ever take you for granted again.”
“How do I know that?” I whispered. “How do I trust that this isn’t just another crisis you’ll solve and then forget about?”
“Because I’m not the same man who gave away your birthday present. Because I’m horrified by how much I’d forgotten and what I have done—by my failure to be the man you fell in love with. Because I love you, and I almost lost you, and that scared me more than anything ever has in my life.”
I looked at him—really looked. Saw the exhaustion in his eyes, the way his hands shook slightly, the stubble that said he hadn’t been sleeping well.
“Do you know what I did on my birthday?” I asked suddenly.
He shook his head.
“I had the most incredible day. I pampered myself.
I met a group of women who made me laugh until my sides hurt.
I danced barefoot on the beach until three in the morning.
I treated myself to all the things I wished you'd treated me to.” My voice broke.
“I had to leave my husband and fly to another state to remember who I was.” I decided not to share with him about the letter.
It was mine and I didn't want anyone else but me and my future self to know about it. It was sacred.
“I’m so sorry—”