Page 19 of The Gathered Fragments of Us
But I came out the other side a man who had his name on the door but no clue what day his wife was born.
I didn’t even notice her pulling away. Which I know isn’t really fair since in truth I pulled away first. But it was unintentional. Reckless. Stupid.
At first it was subtle. Fewer inside jokes. Less spontaneous laughter. More closed doors. Shorter responses when I asked how her day was. Then eventually, she just stopped answering those questions altogether.
God, I hate myself for how long it took me to notice. But I see it now—clear as fucking day.
And I know what I have to do. There is no quick fix. Definitely not a fix by her birthday. I know I can’t sweep in and try to charmher into forgiveness. She deserves better than that. What she needs is consistency. Intentionality. Sustained change.
So I’m going to remind her. Of what I know. What I love. What I’ve seen. What I’ve quietly noticed—every day, even if I stopped showing it.
I once heard it said that love isn’t about how loudly you say it—it’s about how well you live it. So I’m going to start there.
Steadily. Consistently. Undeniably. Until she believes me again.
~Felicity~
I was dressed and out the door before seven—telling myself it was because I had early calls. Really, though, I just couldn’t sit in that house any longer. Not with the letter still on my nightstand and the weight of it lodged in my chest.
No makeup—honestly, I can’t remember the last time I went to work without it—but I just couldn’t bring myself to care. I didn’t blow-dry my hair, just twisted it up in a makeshift bun. As soon as I was dressed, I ran downstairs, planning to take coffee with me.
I tore through the cabinets looking for my mug. Then went back through them again, heart racing now. Where the hell was my freaking mug?
My favorite one—the mug Caden got me after my promotion, when I’d cried in the car because I didn’t think I was good enough. One side read: You are brave, bold, courageous, amazing, inspiring, and loved. The other had a cartoon pickle and the words “If in a pickle, flip.” And if you actually flipped it? The bottom screamed: SEND HELP.
It always made me laugh. I couldn’t explain why, but I wanted it today—needed it today. Maybe because it reminded me of whenthings with Caden were light and easy—when he knew how to make me laugh. When he cared about making me laugh.
And now? Gone. Like everything else that used to feel safe. I threw some coffee in the first to-go mug I could find since clearly, I wasn’t going to find mine this morning.
Arriving at work, I sighed as I closed the door to my office. I dropped my bag on my desk and went to the windows, still holding my coffee. Sitting here thinking about everything—my marriage, our fight, our good times and our bad. Who were we now? We weren’t always this couple.
Once settled, I tried to dive into my inbox, but I couldn’t focus. My eyes blurred. Partly over the words, partly because my eyes were moist with uncried tears. I kept checking the time like it was last period in high school.
Ethan was out for the rest of the week—client meetings out of town. Normally, I’d enjoy the uninterrupted time to get ahead, but today it just made the day feel stark.
I sat back in my chair and stared out the window. Forty. A milestone I’d been quietly dreading—it wasn’t about the number. It was about the feeling of invisibility. Of being forgotten.
Except now… I wasn’t forgotten. Not exactly, I guess?
I couldn’t decide what was worse.
Caden’s letter still echoed in my head. The words had been right. Thoughtful. But one moment, one act on his part doesn’t mean he deserves easy forgiveness.
What I did know was that I wasn’t going to sit around waiting to see what he might do next. Not for my birthday. Not anymore.
I clicked over to my calendar and opened a new time off request. Thursday (half day). Friday (full). Reason: reclaiming my damn life…Okay that’s dramatic. I really just put "Personal time."
I logged off before I could talk myself out of it.
I was home by noon. The silence in the house felt less oppressive this time—maybe because I had an energy that juxtaposed the silence.
I dropped my bag by the front door and made my way to the kitchen. It was still warm from the sunlight filtering through the windows. There were some dishes in the sink, piece of toast off to the side, and the garbage was empty with a new bag inside. I swear I was almost ready to forgive the whole thing—he took out the garbage without being asked. I smirked to myself. Just kidding, kinda.
I leaned against the counter for a moment, then walked to the office. Caden’s office.
The scent of his cologne still lingered. I sat in the chair behind his desk and grabbed a notepad. The old-school kind—spiral-bound at the top, pages slightly yellowed.
I grabbed a pen. Paused. I stared at the blank page for a long moment, pen hovering over the paper. My handwriting started out careful, deliberate—cursive penmanship that seems to be a lost art in itself, but more meaningful in appearance than today’s block lettering. As the words flowed, my script loosened and flowed with a natural curvature that spoke its own language.
