"Woodward, we should go," Cassandra murmured, grabbing her daughter Paige's hand. "I don't want to come between you two."
"Don't mind her, Cassandra," Woodward said, pulling her back. "This isn't your fault. She's being unreasonable. She just needs to cool down."
With that, he strode into the dining room, placed the Thanksgiving dinner I had painstakingly prepared on the table, and sat down to eat with Cassandra and Paige.
I was left alone in the living room. As their laughter drifted from the dining room, a single, hot tear escaped and fell to the floor. In that moment, I understood.
He thought I was hysterical; I saw him as a heartless stranger. We shared a house, but we were worlds apart.
I closed my eyes, forcing the tears back. When I opened them again, my resolve had hardened.
In the end, Cassandra left, and the bracelet went with her.
Woodward came to me, trying to pull me into his arms. "I was too harsh. I'm sorry."
I didn't resist this time, letting him hold my stiff form. He was warm, but all I could smell was his expensive cologne mingling with another woman's perfume. The warmth felt hollow.
My mind drifted back years, to Aria's sterile hospital room. Chemotherapy had stolen her hair, and she couldn't stand the sight of her own reflection.
I'd had the idea for the bracelet back then, hoping a small, beautiful distraction could bring a glimmer of light back into her eyes.
Aria was thrilled when the design was finished. She studied each charm she’d sketched on the paper and smiled for the first time in days.
"Mom, look. I've drawn our whole world."
I smiled and nodded, tears already streaming down my face.
When Woodward returned from a business trip to London, he glanced at the design and said, "Nice idea. Just don't let her get too tired."
Then he disappeared into his study for a video conference. He was always busy, always had something more important than us.
He paid for things, yes—for the best medical care in the world. But he left the emotional torment, the agonizing vigils, and the soul-crushing despair entirely to me.
And now, he wanted to strip away my last piece of solace.
I pulled myself from the memory and gently pushed him away. "Woodward, the words I hear most from you are 'I'm sorry.'"
When I was in labor, he was busy. I went to the hospital alone. When Aria got sick, he was busy. I managed her care alone. When Aria died, he was busy. I planned the funeral alone.
After each abandonment, he would offer a flimsy, hollow "I'm sorry."
Each time, a piece of my heart chipped away.
In the dim light, his face was mostly in shadow. I couldn't read his expression until he lifted his head and our eyes met. His gaze was blank.
A sharp pain lanced through my chest.
When I spoke again, my voice was raw. "But I don't need your apologies."
He frowned, genuinely confused. "I don't understand. What do you need, then? Love? Laird, we've been married for a decade. That fairytale romance isn't what marriage is about."
I stared at the man I had shared my life with for ten years. His face was the same one I'd known for ten years, but I now saw with bitter clarity that his heart had never truly been mine.
Seeing my silence, he opened his mouth to argue, but his phone rang.
He glanced at the screen. "Laird, don't overthink this. I have an urgent email from work."
He patted my head in a condescending gesture of comfort and turned to leave. Just as he reached the door, Cassandra burst in without knocking.
She was sobbing, her words a frantic jumble. "Woodward, it's Paige! She's having an asthma attack, I don't know what to do!"
I heard Woodward's voice, instantly gentle and reassuring. "Don't worry. I'll drive you to the ER right now."
The front door slammed shut, plunging the house into silence. A bitter smile twisted my lips.
When Aria was dying in the ICU, I had never once seen him that frantic.
A chill settled deep in my bones.
He didn't love me. I'd known it for years, but now I was finally admitting it to myself.