Chapter 2 Reckoning
~Caden~
I sat back in my chair, staring at the screen in my home office but not even seeing the words. I'd come downstairs hours ago when, at around three in the morning, I finally gave up on sleep.
I watched the clock tick over to seven a.m. While I'd hoped work would be a distraction, it wasn't.
Forty. She was turning forty.
Shit. Where had the time gone? Why didn't I realize it was this year?
I stood there like an idiot, unable to answer the simplest question about my wife. How could I not remember her age—as much as I tried to play it off when we were talking, we both knew I didn't know. Instead, I sat there and tried to do the math—useless.
My wife. The woman I love. The woman I swore to cherish. FUCK. Forty is a big fucking deal.
And I forgot.
How? When did I become this man? I knew I wasn't exactly detail-oriented in our marriage, but how had it gotten this bad?
My phone lit up.
Jessica: Caden! The bag you got Macy is amazing. She showed me last night when she got home and won't stop talking about it! She's planning her whole first-day outfit around it.
I stared at the screen, nausea rolling through me.
The Dior bag had been perfect—for once, I'd actually gotten it right.
I'd saved the screenshots Felicity had sent.
Gone to the boutique myself. Spent an hour making sure it matched the one she wanted.
The saleswoman had smiled like I was some kind of hero when I went in a couple weeks later to pick up the final customized product.
"Someone's very lucky," she said in that singsong way while carefully wrapping it up.
Felicity told me once she didn't want perfect.
Just effort. I'd forgotten that. This time when I got her gift, I felt proud.
In reality though, I shouldn't have. What kind of asshole gets proud that he knows how to follow directions?
I put zero effort into her gift aside from the minimum of getting what she asked for.
Then, when Macy found it—I hate even thinking about the memory, but the whole scene kept replaying in my head.
I'd been sitting in my office, dealing with final things in preparation for the week ahead. Felicity was at the store, and Macy was upstairs in her room.
I looked up from my work when I heard her come into my office, and I froze when she asked, "Daddy, what's this?"
She held up the exquisite gift bag from Dior.
"Where'd you get that, honey?" Dumb question—I knew where she found it. Even remembering it now, I hung my head in shame.
"It was in the back of my closet! I was looking for my old ballet shoes and found it." Before I knew it, she was pulling the purse out of the gift bag. She gasped, saying, "I love it!"
"That's—" I'd started to say it was Felicity's.
"It's amazing." Her face fell. "It's sort of like one that Mom has. She always gets nice things," she said with a shrug.
That line. She always gets the nice things. Does Macy not?
I'm sure confusion is written all over my face. "Don't you get nice things too, honey? From your mom?"
"Ummm...not really." Her eyes went wide. "Is that why it's here for me? So, I can have something nice for my first day of junior high?! I KNEW you'd think of something!"
I should have said no. That was my moment.
Should've told her the truth. I'd hidden it in Macy's closet, thinking there's no way Felicity would go digging there.
And to be honest, the bottom of my eleven-year-old's closet is like a cesspool—unsure when her old clothes, shoes, and everything in between had last been cleaned, I thought for sure it would keep for a couple weeks. Stupid. Just stupid. Clearly.
But she looked up at me with those green eyes that kill me every time.
"I've never had anything this beautiful. Sophia has something like it—but not as beautiful. Nothing's this beautiful," the last words merely a whisper in awe as she stroked the leather.
"See how it looks," I heard myself say. What? Why did I say that?
Her squeal filled my office. She strutted around like a runway model, practicing how she'd carry it.
"This is really for me, Daddy?! Like really, really?"
And I fucking caved. Like I always cave.
Macy was so young when her mom and I divorced that I've basically always been a weekend dad to her.
I know it's not enough. Guilt was a difficult thing to contend with.
She's such a good kid. Rarely complains.
So again, I'd heard myself respond—almost like an out-of-body experience.
"Sure, sweetheart. It's for your first day. A new school can be scary, so I thought this could help."
Every word out of my mouth made it worse—I'm essentially rubbernecking at my own train wreck.
And now, here I am—sitting in a dark office alone. My wife is asleep in the guest room—definitely not speaking to me.
I don't know how to fix this.
I searched the Dior site again. That bag was a limited edition. Custom order only. I'd had to plan ahead for once.
I dropped my head to the desk—hard. Pain radiated straight through my skull. I deserved it.
I felt the buzz of my phone reverberate through my skull.
Jessica: BTW, can you do me a favor and pick up Macy tomorrow? Brad and I have something with a house showing, and I can't make it.
A week ago, I would've said yes. Would've rearranged my whole day to make it work. I only get to see Macy on the weekends, so if the chance comes up to pick her up, I take it. Even if I have to work, I've brought her back to the office—me doing work, her doing her homework.
Not now, though.
Me: No.
Jessica: WTF, Caden? Seriously? Since when do you say no?
Jessica: Well — since Macy needs things for school that you don’t cover, I have to do extra work. This wouldn’t happen if you weren’t so stingy with support payments.
Me: We have a custody agreement. I pay what we agreed to.
Jessica: Required minimums don’t cover reality, Caden. Do you know what private school costs these days? Her activities? Her clothes? Brad and I are drowning here while you live in your nice house with your perfect wife.
Jessica: Plus, Brad’s business is going through a rough patch. Construction permits are taking forever and we’re carrying debt we can’t afford. I can’t keep asking him to cover Macy’s expenses when his company is struggling.
Me: If money’s that tight, maybe we should talk about adjusting support.
Jessica: Don’t patronize me. We’ll figure it out.
I shut off my phone and opened my laptop. I can’t deal with Jessica’s BS right now with everything going on.
New email from Lauren. Perfect. ~~~ To: Caden Barrett ([email protected]) From: Lauren Chase ([email protected]) Subject: Flowers for Felicity's Birthday Mr. Barrett—Confirming flowers are scheduled for delivery to Felicity's office for tomorrow.
I ordered a beautiful bouquet that should last the week for her birthday.
I know you mentioned getting her gift this year.
Is there anything else I can do to help?
Regards, Lauren ~~~ God. The flowers. I'm sure she'll burn them the second they arrive.
I opened the email to reply. ~~~ To: Lauren Chase ([email protected]) From: Caden Barrett ([email protected]) Subject: Re: Flowers for Felicity's Birthday Me: Can you cancel?
I should be handling the flowers myself.
Can you send me everything you've given Felicity over the years—every gift, reservation, note you've kept.
And anything you know about my wife's preferences.
All of it. ~~~ Lauren responded instantly.
~~~ To: Caden Barrett ([email protected]) From: Lauren Chase ([email protected]) Subject: Re: Flowers for Felicity's Birthday Is everything alright?
Did I make a mistake? Please see attached preliminary file.
I will provide the full detailed file tomorrow when I get to the office.
—Lauren ~~~ I fired off a response. ~~~ To: Lauren Chase ([email protected]) From: Caden Barrett ([email protected]) Subject: Re: Flowers for Felicity's Birthday Me: No. Just send it. —Caden ~~~ Reckoning. ~~~
The file was... embarrassing.
Turns out I've been having my assistant manage my marriage.
Birthday gifts: always jewelry, always from the same two stores.
Anniversary: spa packages or weekend trips... most of which I probably canceled
Flowers: white roses, calla lilies, and wildflowers in the summer. Monthly rotational order signed "Love, Caden."
Restaurants: her five favorites, rotated on schedule
Additional Preferences: Chardonnay, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, likes country music, not a fan of surprises
Not a fan of surprises.
When did I stop trying to surprise her?
I scrolled further
Reservation at new French place for next month—her suggestion.
Sent flowers for her promotion.
Disappointed with the tennis bracelet—try something else next time, include a gift receipt.
Disappointed. My wife was disappointed in a gift she received, and Lauren knew it. She was preparing a backup plan. Because I didn't know her well enough to get it right. Was it the gift she didn't like? Or the fact that it wasn't actually from me? And she knew it.
Ping. Another email from Lauren. ~~~ To: Caden Barrett ([email protected]) From: Lauren Chase ([email protected]) Subject: Re: Flowers for Felicity's Birthday I should mention—Felicity's had a difficult quarter.
The merger has been stressful. She's mentioned wanting a vacation. ~~~
Even my assistant knew she needed a break.
When had I stopped asking her how things were going?
Regret broke my heart. I thought about her when I stood in the kitchen. Her shoulders were slumped—defeated. Voice quiet. "I've run out of words, Caden."
She was right when she called me out for not even apologizing. I'd been too wrapped up in my thoughts—thinking about Macy's happiness and my own defensiveness.
I picked up my phone. Scrolled through our texts.
Me at various times—"Running late." "In a meeting." "Order without me." "Lauren will handle it." "Can you pick up my dry cleaning?"
I sighed. I'm an asshole.
Then, I looked over responses or impromptu messages. Even the tone was different: "Love you," "Thinking of you," "Miss you," "Don't forget—dinner with my sister Saturday." I'd forgotten about the dinner months ago when Maliyah was up visiting from Florida.
"Fuck." The word echoed in the empty office.
I opened a browser.
How to apologize when sorry isn't enough… Romantic gestures for milestone birthdays… How to be a better husband…How to tell your kid no
Useless. Nothing useful for this specific kind of failure.
I pulled up the Dior website again. That perfect, powder-beige bag stared back like it knew exactly what it had ruined.
Macy's face lit up when she tried it on. She'd felt so grown up. But Felicity's face when she saw it on Macy—that was the look that's going to haunt me.
At work, I don't second-guess my decisions. At home? I bend. I soften. I let things slide in the name of peace and forgiveness for not being a full-time dad.
I grabbed my phone again and opened my messages with Felicity.
Me: I know you don't want to hear from me. But I love you. I heard you. I love you. I'll do better — ?Delete?
Me: I'm going to fix this. I know — ?Delete?
Me: I'm sorry. She just looked so happy wi — ?Delete?
What could I possibly say in a text? I didn't even know what I wanted to say yet.
I had less than a week until she turned forty.
Mere days to figure this out.
Just days to become the husband she deserves instead of the one I've been.
Time to learn who Caden Barrett really is and what he stands for.
And maybe more importantly—
Time to humble myself. I refuse to lose the love of my life.
Me: I love you — ?Send?