Chapter 10 (Caden)

                                        

                                              
I got home earlier than usual.
 Meetings had bled into each other until I finally gave up and came home, hoping by some chance I'd get to see Felicity. That maybe she'd want to talk. Or at least argue.
By the time I walked through the door, I was already pulling off my tie, ready to heat up leftovers. But the house was quiet. Not the kind of quiet that feels peaceful. The kind that feels almost foreboding.
Her computer bag was by the door. Shoes tossed to the side. Her car was in the garage, parked next to mine.
Guessing she must be upstairs, I tossed some leftovers into the microwave and made my way to the office to drop off my bag.
That's when I saw it--Folded on the desk. My name scrawled across the front.
Caden. It was in her handwriting.
My stomach turned. I sat down slowly and just held it.
 
All I could think of was Schrödinger's cat—if I didn't open it, then nothing inside could be real. She couldn't be telling me she wanted a divorce. She couldn't be telling me she was done.
I must've sat there for an eternity before I finally gave in. I opened the note and leaned back.
____________________
Caden,
I got your letter. And the dinner. All of it. And yes, it meant something. It really did. But to be honest, it's not enough. Not for this moment. Not for me.
 
Though I think you already know that.
Yes, you remembered some of my favorites. Yes, you may have meant what you wrote.
 But this week—my birthday—it was too late. You've had years.
 And that purse... it meant more than just the material it was made of. Not only that, I'll forever have to see it when Macy carries it—a constant reminder that I wasn't enough.
I'm not punishing you. This isn't payback. This is me standing up for myself.
 
I need space—real space—without expectations, without you trying to fix things with a gift or a grand gesture.
So this weekend is mine. Mine alone. You are not welcome.
I don't mean that to be harsh. I just want to be clear: I don't want you trying to ride in and 'save the day.' I deserve this birthday. I deserve to feel full. To feel free. And I don't need anyone's permission—not even yours—to reclaim that.
Don't call. Don't text. When I get back Sunday, we'll see if I feel like talking.
I do love you. But I need to love myself more. And right now is the time to start.
–Felicity
____________________
I read it twice. . .Then a third time. . .And each time, something inside me cracked a little further.
She was right. God, I hated that she had to leave to make a point. I hated that I didn't even know where she was—anywhere in the world, really. I'd waited until it was too late to try. I'd treated her like an afterthought.
And now she was claiming what she should never have had to fight for in the first place: Her happiness. Her time. Her damned birthday.
I let the note fall to the desk and dropped my head into my hands.The emptiness of the house echoed her absence. And her words echoed in my chest.
No calls. No texts.

 Just space.
I wasn't used to feeling this powerless. But I knew I'd earned this silence.
And now, all I could do was wait—and start the long road of proving I'm still worth coming back to.