Regret didn't wash over me—it crushed me.
It wasn't worth it.
Not for Grandma. Not for me.
How had I ever been so blind? How had I fallen for Mason Gilbert?
Eight years of devotion. I might as well have fed my heart to the dogs.
I rubbed my temples, exhaustion settling deep in my bones. I had zero desire to argue.
"I've done everything required of me," I said flatly. "Whether you agree is your problem." I looked up at him. "Just sign the papers."
Something in my tone struck a nerve. Mason snatched his jacket and stormed toward the door, his profile cold as a blade.
"Naomi, calm down and think this through." His hand gripped the doorknob. "When you're done throwing this tantrum, I'll come back."
The door slammed. The sound echoed through the empty house.
Our story began with a pair of insoles.
My parents died when I was young, leaving Grandma to raise me alone. She didn't have many skills, but her hands were nimble. She sewed insoles to put food on the table and pay for my schooling.
During holidays, I helped her sell them at the park entrance or the foot of the mountain.
That was where I met Mason. His shoe had blown out mid-hike, and he stopped at our humble stall.
"This one, this one—actually, that one too." He pointed randomly. "How much for the lot? And could you stitch them together? My sole split. I need to stuff these inside so I can walk."
I reached for his money, but Grandma pressed her hand over mine.
She took his mud-caked shoe, wiped it clean, and stitched the sole back together—for free.
"There, young man. Good as new." She handed it back. "You don't need all these insoles. Save your money for those who truly need it."
Mason looked at us like we were aliens. He clearly couldn't comprehend why anyone would turn down easy money.
The next day, he returned.
He carried a mountain of gifts—mostly health supplements—claiming it was a thank-you for fixing his shoe.
I glanced at the boxes. Among them was a carton of generic drugstore tonics.
Back then, I thought he'd done his homework. A wealthy heir like him would never usually glance at budget brands. He must have worried we'd refuse something too expensive out of pride.
He was trying so hard to fit into our world.
It was only later I learned the truth: those shoes were the last birthday gift his mother gave him before she passed.
That shared vulnerability opened the door. We started talking, and before long, we fell in love.
When Grandma found out, she was beaming. She couldn't sleep for days.
She would hold my hand in one of hers and Mason's in the other, laughing until her eyes crinkled.
"My girl has finally found someone worth entrusting her life to," she'd say. "Now, when my time comes, I can close my eyes in peace."
Grandma adored Mason.
She constantly praised his filial piety. Every holiday, he visited her, never forgetting those cheap tonics she liked.
Grandma was a simple woman. She believed relationships were like gift-giving—they only lasted if the courtesy was reciprocated.
So from the moment we started dating until the day she died, she never stopped giving back.
Every single month, Grandma sewed a pair of insoles for Mason.
She loved him. Perhaps even more than she loved me.
Over eight years, Grandma handed ninety-six pairs of handmade insoles to Mason Gilbert.
Every time, he accepted them with a warm smile.
Then, the moment he was out of sight, he threw them in the trash. He never used a single pair.
I still remember the day I found out.
"I only wore them that first time because I had no choice," he'd said, voice dripping with disdain. "Honestly? Trash like this wouldn't normally be allowed through my front door."
He said it without a hint of shame.
And standing right next to him, wearing a triumphant smirk, was Fiona.
