He lifted out a felt stocking, red and hand-sewn, his name stitched across it in bold white thread.
He pressed it to his face and exhaled.
Then came the garlands, the pinecones she’d spray-painted gold.
This was what he’d thought was tacky.
This was what he’d told her to tone down.
He reached for a mason jar, its lid crusted with glitter. Inside, a Polaroid floated—him and Lauren, bundled in scarves, cheeks pink from cold, standing in front of their house. Fake snow drifted slowly around their frozen smiles.
The photo had slipped sideways, caught against the glass. A tiny world slightly off balance. He shook it until the photo sat correctly.
The glitter swirled around the image, flickering across their faces.
He held the jar close, the flakes settling.
Tom leaned back against the wall, surrounded by the evidence of her.
He’d spent five years trying toprovidefor her—to be steady, respectable, the man who could buy the things she deserved.
But she hadn’t needed money or marble countertops or a husband who looked good on paper.
She’d needed warmth. Support. Someone to build a life with her instead of for her.
He’d mistaken his paycheck for proof of worth, traded his soul for stability.
He’d needed her. He still did. But she’d never needed him.
He looked around at the tangle of ribbon and glitter, the proof of her joy scattered at his feet.
Lauren had filled his world with Christmas magic, and he’d ruined it.
Tom saton the couch and tried the TV. The sound was too loud. He turned it off. The stillness was unbearable.
He paced the living room like a man waiting for news that would never come. The house—Linda and Gerald’s house—was too warm, too quiet, full of family photos where everyone was smiling, loved, safe. A life that wasn’t his, not really.
He tried stretching out the quilt across his lap again, but the weight of it crushed him. Every crooked line. Every tiny, hopeful scene. He pressed the heel of his hand against his sternum like he could force the ache back down.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Lauren’s face on Christmas night—hurt softening into something worse: realization.
Her voice shaking when she saidget out.
Tom pushed a hand through his hair and stood again, restless. He walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge. He slammed it shut.
The overhead light buzzed.
He rubbed both palms over his face. “Jesus,” he whispered to no one. “What did I do?”
The truth pressed harder than the dark around him: he had hurt the woman he loved.
He walked back to the boxes. Sat on the floor again. Picked up a bit of gold ribbon. Ran it through his fingers.
What had he been thinking? What version of himself had believed “tone it down” was something you said to the woman who spent hours making everything beautiful?
He checked the time on his phone.
Almost dawn.
