Page 40 of The Gathered Fragments of Us
“I know,” he said. “God, Felicity, I know. And I’m so fucking sorry." He pressed his thumb and forefinger into his eyes as his shoulders began to shake. "I’m sorry for the purse, I’m sorry for the birthdays and anniversaries I missed—and all the gifts I delegated. I’m sorry for making you feel like you had to fight for space in your own marriage, in our lives. I’m sorry for not seeing what Jessica was doing, for not protecting you—for not protecting us and what we have—had. I’m sorry for all of it.”
“I don’t want you to just be sorry,” I said, my voice breaking completely. “I want you to be different.”
“I know. I am different.” He stepped closer, and I didn’t step back. “I can’t undo what I’ve done, but I can promise you that I see myself now and what I'd become. I see you now. Really see you. And I will never, ever take you for granted again.”
“How do I know that?” I whispered. “How do I trust that this isn’t just another crisis you’ll solve and then forget about?”
“Because I’m not the same man who gave away your birthday present. Because I’m horrified by how much I’d forgotten andwhat I have done—by my failure to be the man you fell in love with. Because I love you, and I almost lost you, and that scared me more than anything ever has in my life.”
I looked at him—really looked. Saw the exhaustion in his eyes, the way his hands shook slightly, the stubble that said he hadn’t been sleeping well.
“Do you know what I did on my birthday?” I asked suddenly.
He shook his head.
“I had the most incredible day. I pampered myself. I met a group of women who made me laugh until my sides hurt. I danced barefoot on the beach until three in the morning. I treated myself to all the things I wished you'd treated me to.” My voice broke. “I had to leave my husband and fly to another state to remember who I was.” I decided not to share with him about the letter. It was mine and I didn't want anyone else but me and my future self to know about it. It was sacred.
“I’m so sorry—”
“For fuck's sake—Stop apologizing!” I shouted, startling both of us. I am not a big curser … well, that's not true—I just don't usually drop F-bombs. So, more quietly I said, “Stop it. I don’t want your apologies anymore, Caden. I want your attention. I want your effort. I want you to fight for me—for us.”
“I will,” he said desperately. “I am.”
“The flowers in Miami were beautiful,” I said, my voice getting quiet again.
He looked confused. “What flowers?”
“Exactly.” I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “I sent myself flowers. For my birthday. From a woman who finally remembered she was worth celebrating.”
Understanding dawned on his face. “Felicity…”
“I’m not the same woman who left four days ago either, Caden,” I continued. “I’m not going to disappear again. I’m not going to make myself smaller to fit into the spaces you've left behind. If we are going to work, you need to make room for all of me. The quiet parts, angry parts, the demanding parts, the parts that need more than you’ve been giving. You need to see me without me having to tell you or having to give you direction on what I need from you.”
“I want all of you,” he said without hesitation. “I want to make room for all of you—Iwillmake room for all of you.”
I walked to the window and looked out at the backyard, at the garden I’d planted and tended mostly alone. The roses needed deadheading. The weeds were taking over the herb bed. Another metaphor for our marriage—me doing all the maintenance while he focused elsewhere.
“Do you remember why I planted that garden?” I asked.
“Because you wanted fresh herbs for cooking?”
I turned back to him. I huffed out a breath. “No. I planted it the year your company almost went under. When you were working eighteen-hour days and coming home exhausted and distant. I needed something that was mine, something that would grow because I cared for it. Something that would respond to my attention.”
His face crumpled. “Oh, God.”
“I’ve been tending that garden for three years. Do you know—you’ve never once asked me about it. Never noticed when I brought in fresh basil for dinner or when the tomatoes were ready. It was right outside your office window, and you never saw it.”
“I see it,” he whispered.
“Do you? Or are you just saying that because I’m pointing it out?”
He was quiet for a long moment, and I could see him thinking, really thinking.
After a minute I asked, "Caden?"
"Wait—just give me a second?" He looked at his feet, going silent again. And then, “you planted the rosemary in the corner because you read that it’s supposed to mean remembrance,” he said slowly. “And the lavender along the path because it helps you sleep when you’re stressed. The tomatoes are heirloom varieties because you said grocery store tomatoes taste like water. And you put the bench there so you could sit and read in the morning with your coffee.”
I stared at him, shocked. “You…wait, what?!” I was speechless.
