That tree was special to her. It’s special to me, too.
Mark’s wanted it gone for a long time now. Says it’s too close to the house, that the roots might damage the foundation, that the falling leaves clog the gutters every autumn. He even called a tree removal service once, got a quote. I still remember how my heart skipped a beat when they explained it wouldn’t be possible. Apparently, the roots have grown too deep, too intertwined with the land. Removing it would risk damaging the house itself.
And just like that, it’s still here.
Just like Gran’s antiques.
Just like me, too.
My smile spreads slowly, but it doesn’t last. The sound of Mark’s office door creaking open makes my shoulders tense. I don’t turn around right away, hoping—maybe foolishly—that he won’t come looking for me. Maybe he’ll head straight to the kitchen or back downstairs.
But then his voice comes, smooth and detached.
“You were making a lot of noise,” he says.
I close my eyes briefly before turning to face him. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but edged with mild disapproval. He’s still in his usual work attire—pressed slacks, a button-down with the sleeves rolled just enough to look effortless but still polished. His hair is neatly combed.
Correction. When I say “work attire”, I mean his usual outfit. Because Mark never takes a day off.
“Sorry,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. “Had to get Gran’s chair inside.”
His gaze flicks to the rocking chair in the corner. For a moment, he just stares at it, lips pressing into a thin line. I brace myself for whatever he’s about to say. We usually have the same conversation at times like this. The one where he tries to realign my priorities, remind me that there are more important things than sentimental antiques.
But this time, it doesn’t come.
Instead, he glances at his watch and exhales sharply through his nose.
“I'm waiting for a client,” he says. “He’ll be here any minute. I need you to stay in here and not make a sound.”
My brow furrows. “Someone important?”
“Yes. That’s why, please, Skye… I need this to go well.”
Something in his tone feels off—too clipped, too sharp. It’s not just his usual irritation with me or my antiques. It’s something else.
But he doesn’t explain. He just stands there, waiting for me to agree, like he always does. Like it’s expected.
Frustration bubbles in my chest, but I swallow it down.
“Fine,” I say, because arguing won’t get me anywhere. “I’ll stay here. Just… let me know when it’s safe to come out.”
Mark gives a curt nod before turning on his heel and heading back to his office, shutting the door behind him. The latch clicks into place.
I exhale, rubbing my temples.
If my grandmother were here, she’d grab my shoulders and shake me. Hard. I just know it. This ismyhouse. I should be able to move freely, not tiptoe around like some kid in detention. But that’s how it’s been for years with Mark and me.
It's only technically that the house is mine. Mark pays for the renovations, the upkeep, the bills. I’ve never been the breadwinner in our relationship. Even back when we were students, when we first met, he was the one with a plan, the one mapping out our future in neat, orderly steps while I trailed behind, clinging to the things that made me feel grounded.
So, I learned to comply. Most of the time.
Because honestly, what’s a little silence when I’ve had to work two jobs just to keep the lights on? When I’ve watched the walls of my childhood home fall apart because I couldn’t afford to fix them?
Mark saved me from all that. He’salwayssaving me from it.
He's always had clients. He’s always had work that I shouldn’t interfere with. It's all about appearances in his line of work, and I’ve never been one for keeping things neat. I’m the one who doesn’t fit into the image Mark wants to project.
The sound of the front door opening snaps me back to reality, followed by a low murmur of voices. I catch the occasional deep, sharp syllable—firm but unreadable.
