I’d hang that quilt where everyone could see it, because I’d be proud of it and proud of you and proud of our life together.
I want the mess. The noise. The ornaments and wreaths and handmade everything.
I don’t deserve another chance, but I want one anyway.
I love you. I’ve always loved you.
And just like that, she was crying again.
Lauren wiped her cheek with the back of her hand.
She looked at her piece again—ugly and bright and loud. She loved it.
Her hands moved slower now, gentler, smoothing the last strip of ribbon into place.
Lauren leaned back, wiping her eyes with her sleeve, and laughed—soft and shaky, but real.
I don’t deserve another chance, but I want one anyway.
She picked up a brush, dipped it in gold, and added one last small detail in the corner: a single, crooked heart.
CHAPTER 44
Tom
Tom parkedat the curb and killed the engine.
His parents’ house loomed in front of him—perfect and soulless as ever. The porch lights glowed soft and symmetrical, two identical lanterns on either side of the door. The curtains framed the windows at precise, matching angles. The hydrangeas were pruned into nervous little domes.
He’d grown up thinking this was what good taste looked like: neat, contained, controlled.
Now he could barely make himself open the car door.
He’d almost forgotten about the dinner but the reminder text had come that morning, cheerful and absolute.Six o’clock sharp, darling. We’re doing salmon.No mention of Lauren, though of course there wouldn’t be. His mother didn’t seem to care one way or another that his life was in ruins.
Tom shut off the headlights and sat there for a moment, the dark pressing in. Lauren wouldn’t be walking beside him up the path. No nervous chatter to fill the silence. No warm hand in his. No soft perfume.
For years, he’d watched her steel herself before these dinners—checking her lipstick in the mirror, smoothing her skirt, taking a deep breath before the door opened. He’d thought she was trying too hard to impress them. He hadn’t realized that she knew what they thought of her.
She’d been arming herself.
He got out of the car and shut the door quietly. He stood for a moment at the gate, looking at the windows.
He used to feel proud walking up this path. As if arriving here meant he was doing life right: steady job, steady wife, clean shirt, polished shoes. Now it felt like walking toward a mirror that reflected only the parts of him he hated.
He tightened his coat and forced his legs to move.
The gravel crunched under his boots.
He remembered the small things first. Judith’s eyebrow flick when Lauren said the wrong thing. Richard’s forced pauses.
Micro-cuts, all of them. And he’d let them happen.
No—he’d done worse. He’d joined in.
Shame burned low and constant in his chest.
She’d been the brave one all along. The generous one. The only person in that house who’d engaged in conversation in good faith. Who’d tried.
