She loved it so much it hurt.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, voice thick.
“It’s a little lopsided,” he said.
“So am I,” she whispered.
He made a sound—something broken and full and reverent.
She turned to face him. He was watching her like she was a miracle.
“Thank you,” she said.
He nodded once, sharply, like if he spoke too soon everything would crack.
“There’s one more thing,” he said after a moment. “Then I’ll stop ambushing you, I promise.”
She could only nod.
Tom guided her toward the sofa with a gentle hand at the small of her back. She let him; her knees felt unsteady anyway. The cushion dipped softly beneath her, and he stepped back—just enough to reach for something behind the armchair.
When he turned around, he was holding the quilt.
Her quilt.
Lauren’s breath stuttered. The familiar squares spilled over his arms—first-date coffee cups, their red-door apartment, the church, the honeymoon ocean, the embroidery of their home’s blueprints. Memories she’d stitched in good faith, before she’d realized how precarious happily-ever-after could be.
Tom lowered himself to the floor. He knelt at her feet, the quilt draped over his forearms like an offering. Slowly, reverently, he spread it across her lap, smoothing the fabric with both hands.
“Tom…” she whispered.
At first she didn’t see it.
Then she did.
A new square.
The fabric didn’t match the originals; the stitching was a little too tight in places, a little too loose in others. But the image was clear enough: he’d made her into a figure glowing with gold and rose thread, warm and powerful. Her outline was the brightest thing on the quilt—a halo of stitched light around her. Tom’s shape knelt before her.
“You added a square,” she whispered.
“I did,” he said. “Took… way more tries than I want to admit. Your mom pretended not to watch me swear at fabric.”
She let out an unsteady laugh, wiping at her face.
He took a breath, steadying himself.
“I hate that I pushed you to that,” he said. “I hate that I made Christmas—the thing you loved most—hurt.”
He knelt in front of her, hands braced lightly on his thighs.
“But I am so, so glad you kicked me out,” he said.
Her head snapped up. “What?”
“I’m glad,” he repeated. “Because if you hadn’t?” His mouth twisted. “I would have stayed exactly who I was. Safe. Cowardly. Hiding behind my parents’ taste and calling it maturity. I’d have kept… holding you down, holding you back.”
His voice broke. He swallowed hard and kept going.
