He wanted to fix it. To rewind to Christmas morning and do everything differently. To go back even further—to every decoration he'd dismissed, every handmade gift he'd tolerated instead of treasured.
But he couldn't. He could only stand here in the cold, holding his wife’s hand and finally—finally—understanding the full weight of what he'd done.
The drive back was quiet.Not awkward, just… spent.
Lauren stared out the passenger window, the winter light turning her skin pale gold. Every so often, he caught her reflection in the glass. Beautiful and sad. He felt an ache in his chest so sharp it bordered on panic—he wanted to fix it, to reach across the space between them and repair every shattered piece.
When he pulled into their driveway, the engine ticked as it cooled.
“Thanks for…” she began, then trailed off, looking down at her hands.
He finished for her. “For not being a total disaster today?”
That got the smallest smile from her—weary but real.
“I was going to say for the ride,” she said.
He smiled back. “You’re welcome.”
The duffel bag sat on the back seat, his clothes neatly folded inside, clean and dry.
He followed her to the door. The air smelled faintly of snow and laundry soap, that strange clean scent of winter mornings. She turned to unlock the door.
“Lauren.”
She looked back at him, her hair catching the light.
He didn’t think. He just stepped forward.
His arms wrapped around her. Her arms slid around his waist almost automatically.
She fit against him the way she always had. Her cheek against his chest. He rested his chin lightly on her hair, and the smell of her shampoo hit him with the force of memory.
For a long, perfect moment, the world went quiet. Just the steady rhythm of her breathing against him and the strange peace of holding her.
He felt her exhale, a small shudder against his chest, and his hand moved instinctively, slow and reassuring over her back.
“Hey,” he murmured. “You’re okay.”
“I know,” she whispered, voice muffled against him. “I just… forgot what this felt like.”
Tom’s throat tightened. “Me too.”
She drew back first.
As she disappeared inside, the door closing gently behind her, he stood there a moment longer, the ghost of her warmth still on his skin.
Tom saton the floor of Lauren's childhood bedroom with his back against the bed, staring at nothing.
The quilt lay across his lap. He'd been holding it for—he didn't know how long. An hour? Two?
His phone buzzed. He picked it up, hoping?—
Jake:Mom wants to know if you're coming to Thursday dinner
Tom groaned.
Thursday dinner. With his parents. Where they'd all sit around that pristine table and discuss appropriate topics in appropriate tones, and his mother would make cruel little observations about other people's choices, and his father would talk about restraint and sophistication and knowing when to stop.
