"Try it on," I heard myself say. What? Why did I say that? 
Her squeal filled the closet. She strutted around like a runway model, practicing how she'd carry it.
"This is really for me, Daddy?! Like really, really?"
And I fucking caved. Like I always cave. Macy was so young when her mom and I divorced that I've basically always been a weekend dad to her. I know it's not enough. Guilt was a difficult thing to contend with. She's such a good kid. Rarely complains. So again, I'd heard myself respond—almost like an out of body experience. 
"Sure, princess. It's for your first day. A new school can be scary, so I thought this could help."
Every word out of my mouth made it worse.
Now here I am. Sitting in a dark office, my wife asleep in the guest room - definitely not speaking to me.
I don't know how to fix this.
I searched the Dior site again. That bag was limited edition. Custom order only. I'd had to plan ahead for once.
I dropped my head to the desk—hard. Pain radiated straight through my skull. I deserved it.
My phone buzzed.
Jessica: BTW, can you handle pickup tomorrow? Brad's being difficult again.
A week ago, I would've said yes. Would've rearranged my whole day to make it work.
Not now.
Me: No. Stick to the custody agreement.
Jessica: WTF, Caden? Seriously? Since when do you say no?
Since my wife looked at me like I was a stranger.
Since I couldn't remember her birthday.
Since she said I put everyone else before her—and she was right.
Me: I'm busy, Jess. You need to handle things on your days. I can't keep dropping everything to pick up the slack.
I shut off my phone and opened my laptop. New email from Lauren. Perfect.
Mr. Barrett—Reminder that Mrs. Barrett's birthday is in four days. Shall I arrange the usual Tiffany selection? Also, the flowers were delivered today.
God. The flowers. I'm sure she burned them the second they arrived. A standing order. Thoughtful, right? Except it wasn't.
I opened a reply.
Me: Cancel all standing orders. I should be handling this myself. Send me everything—every gift, reservation, note you've kept. And anything you know about my wife's preferences. All of it.
Lauren responded instantly.
Everything? Is everything alright? Did I make a mistake?
Me: No. Just send it.
Reckoning.
The file was... embarrassing.
Turns out I've been having my assistant manage my marriage.
    •    Birthday gifts: always jewelry, always the same two stores
    •    Anniversary: spa packages or weekend trips... most of which I probably canceled
    •    Flowers: white roses, monthly, signed "Love, Caden"
    •    Restaurants: her five favorites, rotated on schedule
    •    Preferences: Chardonnay, dark chocolate, no surprises
No surprises.
When did I stop trying to surprise her?
I scrolled further.
    •    Reservation at new French place for next month—her suggestion
    •    Sent flowers for her promotion
    •    Disappointed with the tennis bracelet—try something else next time, include a gift receipt
Disappointed. My wife was disappointed and Lauren knew it. She was preparing a backup plan. Because I didn't know her well enough to get it right.
I closed the file. Opened a blank document.
⸻
— What I Know About My Wife —
    •    Turning 40 on Thursday
    •    Likes Chardonnay
    •    Works in HR (title ... Fuck.)
    •    Perfume in long bottle—check label tomorrow
    •    
⸻
The cursor blinked.
Six years of marriage, and I couldn't fill a page.
Ping. Another email from Lauren.
Sir, I should mention—Mrs. Barrett's had a difficult quarter. The merger has been stressful. She's mentioned wanting a vacation.
Even my assistant knew she needed a break.
When had I stopped asking?
Regret.
I thought about her in the kitchen. Shoulders slumped. Voice quiet. "I've run out of words, Caden."
She was right. I hadn't even apologized. I'd been too wrapped up in my thoughts — thinking about Macy's happiness — like that made any of this okay.
I picked up my phone. Scrolled through our texts.
Me:
    •    Running late
    •    In a meeting
    •    Order without me
    •    Lauren will handle it
    •    Can you pick up my dry cleaning?
Her:
    •    Love you
    •    Thinking of you
    •    Miss you
    •    Don't forget—dinner with my sister Saturday
I'd forgotten about the dinner.
"Fuck." The word echoed in the empty office.
I opened a browser.
    •    How to apologize when sorry isn't enough
    •    Romantic gestures for milestone birthdays
    •    How to be a better husband
    •    How to tell your kid no
Useless. Nothing useful for this specific kind of failure.
I pulled up the Dior website again. That perfect, powder beige bag stared back like it knew exactly what it had ruined.
Macy's face lit up when she tried it on. She'd felt so grown up.
But Felicity's face when she saw it on Macy—
That was the look that's going to haunt me.
At work, I don't second-guess my decisions.
At home? I bend. I soften. I let things slide in the name of peace.
Resolve.
I opened a message to Felicity.
Me: I know you don't want to hear from me. But I need you to know I heard you. Every word. And you're right. I love you. I know it's not just about the bag. I'm going to fix this—
Delete.
Me: I'm going to fix this. I know—
Delete.
Me: I'm sorry. She just looked so happy wi—
Delete.
What could I possibly say in a text? I didn't even know what I wanted to say yet.
I had four days until she turned forty.
Four days to figure this out.
Four days to become the husband she deserves instead of the one I've been.
Time to learn who Felicity Barrett really is.
And maybe more importantly—
Time to decide if I'm finally brave enough to disappoint everyone else... just to make her happy.