"What? I didn't—"
"I know," he said quickly, cutting me off, shaking his head. "I know you didn't mean it like that. But in that moment—I was already furious with myself, frustrated with you, angry at everything. I felt like I was failing you, failing my family, failing everyone. And this stupid part of me thought—maybe if I help find the cat, I can make at least one thing right in this complete disaster of a day."
His voice faltered for a second. "I know I messed it up. I was driving high on frustration, and instead of handling it properly, I took it out on you. I'm sorry. I am trully sorry. I was wrong, all along."
"What about her picture?"
His brow furrowed. "What picture?"
"In your phone."
Realization hit, his mouth opening slightly. "I swear, I didn't do that. I didn't even notice—I wasn't paying attention. After you left, my father asked me to hand her the phone to focus on work and I just... gave it to her without thinking. She changed it. I didn't notice until later."
A long, bitter silence stretched between us before I asked, "Did you... complain about me to her?"
His eyes snapped back to mine. "Never. I promise you—I never talked about you. Not once. Not even in passing. Every time she brought you up—'Isn't your wife waiting?'—or tried to open that door, I shut it down. I didn't vent about you. I didn't use her as some kind of emotional crutch or an escape hatch from our marriage."
He dragged a hand through his hair, the frustration in his voice turning inward. "I didn't confide in her. I didn't sit there telling her my life, building some secret version of happiness with her. It wasn't emotional—it was selfish. Ego. Weakness. And none of those excuses matter because I still made the choices I made."
I swallowed. "But you wouldn't stop her if she said something nasty about me."
His jaw tightened. "I'd change the subject. I hate confrontations—you know that. And she didn't start like that, not really. She got worse toward the end. But I should've shut that down properly. I didn't. And that's on me. I am sorry."
"I don't get it, Thomas," I whispered. "I thought I gave you love. Attention. I thought I gave you enough."
"You did," he said softly, like it hurt to say it. "You absolutely did. None of this is a reflection of you. It's me. My mess. My damage. My mistakes. And I'm going to be the one fighting for us, whether you believe me now or not. Even if you sign the damn papers—I'll still be here, showing you, every day, what I should've done before."
"When did you put the plaque under our tree?"
He looked almost shy, rubbing the back of his neck like a teenager caught doing something embarrassing. "You... saw that?"
"Yeah," I nodded slowly. "When?"
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "After Lola was born."
I blinked, surprised. "Really?"
He nodded, looking down for a moment like he was trying to untangle the memory. "I was with you at the hospital, remember? But my head... I wasn't fully there. I was already thinking about work, about how I needed to start bringing in more now that Lola was here. And of course—" he huffed, rolling his eyes at himself, "—Dad wouldn't stop texting me, telling me to 'be a man' and get back to work. Said this wasn't exactly my first kid, so I should stop acting like it was a big deal."
I rolled my eyes too, matching his frustration. That sounded exactly like James.
He gave a dry laugh. "You were pissed at me for checking my phone while I was supposed to be with you—and you were right. You were completely right. But... I just felt trapped in it. Like I was failing at everything. Failing you, failing work, failing at being the kind of man I kept thinking I was supposed to be."