He'd barely looked at it on Christmas Day. He looked at it now.
Tom knew what was tasteful. His mother had drilled it into him and Jake when they were children. And then when he had taken the job in the family business, his father had kept teaching him, showing him what it took to be a professional.
The squares spread across his hands, a patchwork of colors and scenes.
Everyone started out with a chaotic sense of taste but part of growing up was learning to refine that, to… suppress it.
There was too much going on, too many patterns competing for attention. His initial instinct was the same as Christmas Day—to fold it back up, put it away, not think too hard about it.
The first square showed two coffee cups, steam rising in careful embroidery. The cups sat on what was clearly meant to be a café table, tiny stitched legs beneath a checkered surface.
Their first date.
He'd been nervous. Lauren was nothing like anyone he’d met, nothing like the people he’d grown up with. And yet, he’d never connected with someone so immediately.
He’d thought:I could fall in love with this woman.
Had he ever told her? Had he ever told her that he’d thought that on their first date? Would she find it sweet? Or deranged?
Tom's fingers traced the embroidered steam. The stitches were uneven, clearly hand-done. Not perfect. But the scene was unmistakable.
Square after square, their relationship had been laid out in fabric and thread.
The work started out clumsy. She'd unpicked stitches and redone them, little holes in the fabric marking her mistakes. The early squares were rougher than the later ones, her skill improving as she went.Nothingabout it was professional or polished.
Tom's hands moved over the quilt, finding details he'd missed at first glance. Some of the squares had dates embroidered beneath the scene in tiny, careful numbers. Their initials were hidden in the corners of some, intertwined like a monogram. In one square—the honeymoon beach—she'd stitched their footprints in the sand, walking side by side.
The bottom row was different. The squares were blank, temporary stitches holding them in place.
For everything still to come.
That's what she'd said, wasn't it? On Christmas Day, when she'd been showing him the quilt with such obvious pride. He'd been too busy being embarrassed to actually listen, buthe remembered now. She'd pointed to these empty squares and talked about the future.
She'd been planning for forever. Making space in the quilt for babies and anniversaries.
Tom sat on the edge of the bed, the quilt spread before him like evidence.
He'd called it cringe. Itwascringe.
His throat felt tight.
How long had this taken? Work done in secret, spare moments stolen to create this. While he'd been at the office or on job sites, Lauren had been stitching their history. Documenting their life together like it was something precious. Something worth preserving.
His hands curled into fists on top of the quilt. The fabric wrinkled under his grip, and he immediately let go, smoothed it flat again, careful not to damage it.
He stood abruptly, pacing to the window. Outside, snow fell in the pale glow of streetlights, covering everything in white. The neighborhood was silent, sleeping, everyone else tucked warm in their beds, husbands and wives together.
And he was here. Alone in his wife's childhood bedroom.
He’d fix it—whateveritwas. He just needed a plan.
Somewhere between midnight and dawn, the decision had taken shape. He wasn’t losing her. Not over this. Not over a misunderstanding.
Now, in the light of day, he sat at Linda and Gerald’s kitchen table, staring at the notebook he’d found on the counter. Definitely Linda’s. Pale pink cover, tiny roses printed around the edges.
The delicate flowers made something twist uncomfortably in his chest.
Lauren loved roses.
