18. Pierce
PIERCE
The nursery smelled like new paint and cedar, and I hated it.
I'd been standing in the doorway for God knows how long, staring at the pale gray walls Sienna picked out, the white crib she'd ordered, the mobile of white and silver circles hanging above it that Hannah would've called precious in that voice she used when she was being polite about something she despised.
The whole room felt wrong. Cold. Like a showroom instead of a place for our child.
Our child.
I still wanted Hannah back. That hadn't changed. But I wanted her back on terms that made sense, terms that didn't require me to grovel or admit I'd been the problem all along, terms where I could fix what was broken without actually saying it was my fault it broke in the first place.
The thought settled low in my chest and stayed.
I stepped into the room. The floor didn't creak.
Everything Sienna chose was expensive and perfect and completely lifeless, and I'd let her do it because it was easier than paying attention, easier than listening to Hannah talk about colors and furniture and all the things that apparently mattered more than I'd realized.
That's when I saw the folder.
It was on the windowsill, half-hidden behind the curtain.
The folder was pale blue, the kind Hannah used for everything, and my breath caught the second I recognized it.
I crossed the room and picked it up. The label on the front read Nursery — Ideas & Plans in her neat handwriting, the letters all the same height, the way she used to write on the chalkboard when she was still teaching.
I opened it.
The first page was a list. Her lists always started the same way, numbered and practical, but this one made my throat go tight.
1. Crib placement — away from window, no drafts.
2. Rocking chair — near outlet for lamp, soft light for night feedings.
3. Bookshelf — low, sturdy, room to grow the collection.
On and on, a dozen items, each one thought through and written down in that careful way she had, the way that meant she'd been planning this for months.
God, I had been a fool.
I flipped to the next page. Paint swatches.
She'd taped samples to the paper, soft yellows and greens with notes beside each one.
Pale mint — calming but not cold. Buttercream — warm, goes with natural light.
She'd drawn arrows, crossed some out, circled her favorite.
I didn't remember her showing me any of this.
I didn't remember her talking about paint at all, except?—
Except I did.
She'd brought it up at breakfast one morning, maybe two months ago, and I'd been checking my phone, skimming an email from a client, and I'd said something like "Whatever you think is best" without looking up.
She'd gone quiet. I remembered that. I remembered the silence and thinking it was over, thinking we'd moved on, but she must've put the swatches away and never brought them up again because I'd already made it clear I didn't care enough to listen.
My hands were shaking. I set the folder on the floor and sat down beside it, my back against the wall, the closet door digging into my shoulder blade.
I kept reading.
There were pages of notes about furniture, about safety locks and outlet covers, about where to put the changing table so it'd be easy to reach in the middle of the night.
There were lists of books she wanted to read to the baby, old favorites from when she was teaching, new ones she'd found and loved.
She'd written a whole paragraph about why she wanted a reading nook in the corner, something about how kids needed a place that felt like theirs, a place where they could sit and look at picture books and feel safe.
She'd told me all of this. Every word. I knew she had because reading it now felt like hearing an echo of a dozen conversations I'd waved off or nodded through while thinking about work, about deals, about problems that seemed bigger than paint colors and rocking chairs and everything she was trying to build for us.
I'd never heard a single word.
The realization hit me like whiplash, sharp and sudden and so obvious I couldn't believe I'd missed it for six years.
She'd been talking. She'd been telling me what mattered, what she needed, what she wanted our life to look like, and I'd been answering with logic and brushing her off and treating her like she was making a mountain out of an anthill instead of asking me to be there, to listen, to care about the things she cared about.
I thought about our marriage the way it used to be.
Early on, before the business took over, before I started thinking of home as the place I recharged between meetings and Hannah as the person who kept it all running so I didn't have to think about it.
We used to talk. Not about work or schedules, but about everything else — her students, the books she was reading, the trip we'd take someday when things slowed down.
She used to light up when I asked her about her day, and somewhere along the way I'd stopped asking.
I'd stopped listening.
I remembered the question she'd asked me at Julia's door, her voice quiet and tired in a way that scared me more than anger would have.
She'd asked if I knew why she left. I'd given her an answer about stress and pregnancy and needing space, a practical answer that made sense to me, an answer I thought would smooth things over so we could move forward and fix whatever was broken without digging too deep into what broke it.
I'd been wrong.
God, I'd been so wrong.
She didn't leave because she was stressed.
She didn't leave because of Sienna, not really, even though Sienna had made everything worse.
She left because I didn't listen to her.
She left because she'd spent years talking to a husband who wasn't hearing her, who waved off her worries and made her feel like she didn't matter as much as the work, the clients, the next deal.
The answer settled in my chest, heavy and uncomfortable, but I knew it wasn't the whole truth.
There was more. Something about the way she'd looked at me when she asked, something in her voice that told me I was still missing a piece of it, something deeper than just not listening.
But this was the start. This was the crack in the wall I'd built around myself, and if I kept pulling at it maybe I'd find the rest.
I sat there for a long time, the folder open on my lap, Hannah's careful handwriting blurring in front of me.
I'd been calling her every day since she left.
Messaging her. Leaving voicemails that started reasonable and ended desperate, trying to convince her to come home, to give me another chance, to let me fix this.
I'd kept her wedding ring wrapped in a white handkerchief in my desk drawer like some kind of talisman, like I could use it to win her back, like I could show up at Julia's place and ask her to put it back on and everything would go back to normal.
But normal was the problem. Normal was me not listening. Normal was her talking to a wall and pretending she wasn't alone in a marriage that should've been a partnership.
I pulled my phone out.
There were three unsent drafts sitting in my messages to her, things I'd written and rewritten and never had the guts to send because they all sounded like excuses.
I deleted them. All of them. Then I opened my call log and stared at her name, at the list of outgoing calls she hadn't answered, and I felt my jaw go tight.
She'd asked for a divorce.
I hadn't wanted to believe it. I'd thought if I gave her time, if I kept reaching out, if I proved I wasn't going to just let her go, she'd change her mind.
But that was me deciding what she needed again, wasn't it?
That was me ignoring what she'd actually said because it didn't fit the plan I had in my head.
I couldn't do that anymore. I wouldn't.
I put the phone down and picked up the folder again, flipping to the last page.
It was a sketch she'd drawn, rough and simple, of the nursery the way she'd imagined it.
The crib by the far wall, the rocking chair in the corner, the bookshelf under the window.
She'd written a note at the bottom: A place to grow.
My throat burned.
The divorce papers were in my office here at home, still unsigned.
I'd carried them back from the company office, along with the ring, and they'd been mine to sign since the day they came.
I'd told myself I wasn't going to sign them.
I'd told myself I'd fight this, that I'd find a way to change her mind, that I'd fix the marriage without having to lose it first.
But signing them wasn't losing her. Signing them was listening to what she was asking for. And maybe — maybe if I stopped fighting her and started hearing her, there'd be a chance someday for something that wasn't just going back to normal. Something better. Something real.
I didn't know if she'd ever forgive me. I didn't know if she'd come back. But I knew I couldn't keep calling her, couldn't keep pushing, couldn't use the ring or the baby or anything else to pull her back into a marriage she'd been drowning in.
I stood up, leaving the folder on the floor, and walked out of the nursery.
My office was dark when I got there. I didn't bother turning on the light. I sat down at the desk and pulled the divorce papers toward me, the pages crisp and formal and so final it made my chest ache. I read through them once, slowly, and then I picked up a pen.
My hand hovered over the signature line.
I thought about calling Carter, about asking him what the hell I was supposed to do, but I already knew what he'd say. He'd ask me what Hannah wanted. He'd ask me if I was listening.
I signed my name.
The pen scratched across the paper, loud in the quiet, and when I was done I set it down and stared at what I'd just agreed to. Dissolution of marriage. Division of assets. Terms I'd never thought I'd see attached to my name and hers.
I couldn't say it out loud. Couldn't admit to anyone, not even Carter, that I'd never listened, that I'd been so wrapped up in work and money and keeping everything running that I'd missed my wife asking me to see her.
But signing the papers was close. It was the closest I could get to saying I understood, that I wasn't going to fight her anymore, that I'd let her go if that's what she needed.
I put the papers in an envelope and sealed it, addressed it to her lawyer, and left it by the front door for the courier. Tonight I'd sit with what I'd done and try not to think about how empty the house felt without her.
I walked back to the nursery.
The folder was still on the floor where I'd left it.
I picked it up and set it on the shelf Sienna had installed, the one that was too high and too narrow for the books Hannah wanted to put there.
The sketch she'd drawn looked small in my hand, but I could see it, the room she'd imagined, the place she'd wanted to build for our child.
I didn't know if I'd ever get the chance to build it with her. I didn't know if she'd let me back in, or if signing the papers meant I'd lost her for good.
But I knew I wasn't going to fight the divorce. She'd asked for it, and I'd spent six years not listening to what she asked for. I wasn't going to do that again.
I stood in the nursery Sienna designed, the one that smelled like new paint and cedar and nothing like home, and I made myself a promise I wasn't sure I could keep.
I'd lose Hannah before I'd stop listening to her again.