Love & All Things Broken

The Uber pulled away, leaving me standing in my own driveway with my suitcase and a heart that felt too big for my chest. The house looked the same—white colonial, black shutters, the garden I'd planted three springs ago—but something felt different. I think it was me.

I could see warm light spilling from the front windows. Caden's car was in the garage, but no sign of Jessica's SUV. Good. I wasn't ready for that particular brand of drama tonight.

My key turned easily in the lock, and I stepped inside to the smell of something familiar. Something that made my throat tighten with memory.

"Felicity?" Caden's voice came from the kitchen, cautious and hopeful.

"It's me."

Dropping my suitcase by the door, I followed the scent toward the back of the house. He was standing by the stove, wooden spoon in hand, looking like he'd been caught doing something he'd get in trouble for.

"You're cooking," I said, surprised by how my voice sounded—smaller than I intended.

"Yeah—I ... I thought our taco dish could be a good way to—" he paused, almost searching for the words. "I don't know. I guess—it seemed like a good welcome home. Now it feels like..." He trailed off, gesturing helplessly at the pan. "Um. Well I don't know—So, I thought maybe you'd be hungry."

I stared at him. At the clean kitchen, the fresh flowers on the counter, the two forks laid out on a single plate. Just like we used to do—when we were happy.

The flowers weren't white roses. They were vibrant—orange mixed with purple. I wasn't sure what the flowers were, but they were beautiful. I could see there was eucalyptus and some baby's breath mixed in. It was a splattering of colors. It felt like someone had paid attention instead of just checking off a box.

"Where's Macy?"

His face darkened. "Jessica picked her up early. She... there was a situation."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak yet. The disappointment hit harder than I expected. That felt like a surprise. I'd been looking forward to seeing her, wanted to make sure she didn't think this whole thing was her fault. Because, it wasn't.

"She wanted to be here," Caden continued quickly. "She was really upset about leaving. She wanted to apologize to you. About the purse."

"She doesn't need to apologize for anything." The words came out sharper than I meant them to. "She's eleven, Caden. This was never about her."

"I know." He set down the spoon and turned to face me fully. "I know that. I know I screwed everything up. I know I made it worse when you tried to tell me too."

We stood there in the kitchen where this all started, the same kitchen where I'd watched my husband give away the one thing I'd asked for, where I'd finally found my voice and used it to tell him how invisible I felt.

I touched the flowers gently. "These are beautiful."

"Macy picked them out. For you. She spent twenty minutes at the flower shop making sure they were perfect." His voice was soft. "She said the white roses you usually get are pretty, but these ones were happy. Like you."

My throat closed up. An eleven-year-old had put more thought into flowers for me than my husband had in years. That stung.

"I got your text," I said finally. "About my birthday."

He nodded. "I didn't know if I should... you said not to call or text, but I couldn't let the day pass without..."

"Thank you." I surprised myself by meaning it.

"How was Miami?"

"Good." I touched the strap of my purse, thinking of the spa, beach, shopping, the women who'd adopted me for a night. The letter and the postcard I'd written to myself. "Really good, actually. No—that's wrong. It was amazing."

Something shifted in his expression. Relief, maybe. But fear too?

"I'm glad," he said quietly. "You deserved that."

The silence stretched between us, heavy with everything we hadn't said yet. I could feel the conversation coming, the one we'd been building toward for months. Maybe years.

I walked over to the island and set down my purse, my movements deliberate and slow. I was stalling, and we both knew it. But I needed to take a breath and gather myself, to find the words for what felt like the most important conversation of my life.

"The house looks good," I said, taking in the spotless counters, the absence of his usual clutter. "Did you clean?"

"Top to bottom." He almost smiled. "Twice, actually. I kept finding things I'd missed."

"Like what?"

He paused, looking like he was nervous to say. "Your coffee mug. You know, the one I gave you for your promotion? I—um, I found it buried under a stack of paperwork and things on my desk. I'd been drinking my coffee right next to it for well, I don't know how long, without seeing it."

Well, I guess I knew where my mug went. I'd searched everywhere for it the other day, coming up empty handed. It was the one that said "You are brave, bold, courageous, amazing, inspiring, and loved."

"I used to use that mug every morning," I said quietly. "I couldn't figure out where it went. I couldn't find it anymore."

His face fell. "I'm sorry."

I scoffed. "Feels like quite the metaphor, doesn't it?" I looked at him directly. "Me, buried under your stuff. You, drinking your coffee right next to me every morning without really seeing me."

He didn't answer, but I saw the truth of it hit him.

"Caden," I started, then stopped. My hands were shaking.

"What is it?"

"I can't do this anymore." The words fell out of me like stones. "I can't keep pretending that a dinner and some flowers and a heartfelt letter are going to fix six years of me being invisible in my own marriage."

His face went pale. "Felicity—"

"Wait. You need to let me finish." I held up a hand, surprised by my own steadiness. "I'm not saying I don't love you. I'm not saying I want a divorce. But I am saying that something has to fundamentally change, or I'm done."

He nodded slowly, like he'd been expecting this. Maybe he had.

"I've spent so much time making myself smaller," I continued, the words flowing now like water through a broken dam. My voice gravelly, like cracks creating breaks across that dam. "Making excuses for you. Telling myself 'He's just busy, just stressed, things will get better when the next crisis passed or the next deal closed.' But they never did, did they?"

"No," he said quietly. "They didn't."

"Can you even imagine what it's like to be married to someone who remembers every detail of the things around him except for the details around his wife?" My voice cracked. "To watch you bend over backward for others, for your clients, for your work—but not for me?"

"I didn't realize—"

"I know! That's the problem!" The words exploded out of me. I knew I was yelling. I don't usually yell. But I couldn't control it. "You didn't realize. For years, Caden. You didn't realize that I was right next to you...drowning."

Tears were streaming down my face now, but I couldn't stop. Wouldn't stop.

"I used to feel so loved by you. I was seen. Remember the times we used to go for hikes? Or when you would wake me early for breakfast so we could watch the sun come up together? Or what about when you surprised me that first year with tickets to see Billy Joel?"

His eyes filled. "I remember."

"Where did that man go? When did that man disappear? When did I become just another item on your to-do list, something to be managed by your assistant?"

"I don't know," he whispered. "I lost myself somewhere. In work, in trying to prove something after the company almost went under. I thought I was doing it for us, for our future, but I got so lost in saving everything else that I forgot to save us."

"Let's be clear—You didn't lose me," I said fiercely. "You forgot me. There's a difference."

His tears were flowing now too, and something in my chest cracked open at the sight of it.

"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 and what 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—I will make 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.

"I know I'm not always present. I miss things. I've checked out. But I honestly still know you in my heart. When everything happened, I sat and tried to remember all the things you like, all the things about you I should know without trying to dig in my brain." he said simply. "Then I remembered that there is a deeper part of my heart that just knows you. I love you, Felicity. I'm a complete screw up. I know I got so lost in everything else that I forgot to show you. But I see how you take care of everyone around you. I see how you make Macy feel special when she's here, how you give your heart. You leave small notes around for me. You give the most amazing hugs. Your heart is a beautiful thing. I failed to protect it. And I will never make that mistake again."

Tears were flowing freely now. "Then why didn't any of that matter when it came to remembering my birthday? How can you say these things without me now? Where was all this then?"

"Because I'm an idiot," he said simply. "Because I got comfortable thinking you'd always be there, always be understanding, always be willing to wait for me to have time for you. Because I took your strength for granted and forgot that strong people can break too."

"I did break," I whispered. "That night with the purse. I broke completely."

"I know. I saw it happen and I was too stupid to understand what I was watching—even though I was right there in the middle of it."

"I've felt so alone, Caden. Alone in this marriage, alone in this house, alone in my own life. Do you have any idea what that feels like—any idea what it has been like to be me?"

"I don't. And I could never." he said quietly. "You would never put me in that position—not like I did you. But this last week. This time without you—not knowing if you would even come home—if you would give me a chance...they have been heartbreaking. I've never felt lonelier in my life, and just the thought that my small taste of what you experienced over these last few years—I can't even pretend to imagine. I. Am. So. Fucking. Sorry."

I looked around, needing to see anything—anything but the pure sincerity and remorse on his face. "This home of ours—you know it's almost stopped feeling like home," I said. "Almost like a place I was staying. One with memories, but unlikely hope of a future."

"What can I do to make it feel like home again?"

I looked around the kitchen—at the evidence of his effort, at the flowers Macy had chosen, at the meal he'd prepared with his own hands instead of ordering takeout or asking me to cook.

"I don't know yet," I said honestly. "But this is a start."

"There's something else," he said, reaching into his pocket. "From Macy. She emailed me tonight."

He handed me his phone, and I read her message, my heart breaking and mending at the same time.

"She's a good kid," I whispered. "I wish—" I paused, handing him back the phone, and unsure of how to continue.

"What? You can tell me anything. I swear, I'm here to listen now. Now and forever."

"I don't know. I feel this weird sensation. It's hard to explain. I...I feel torn."

"Torn?"

"Yeah. Trying for so long to have a kid. Trying and failing." The tears that had finally dried started again. I knew this was one of those things—one of the issues between us that had no solution.

"Felicity." I heard his sigh. Thinking he was exasperated by the topic, I responded, "I know. I know it's done. I get it. Nevermi—"

"No!" He said sharply, then dialing his volume back he repeated, "no. I don't mean don't talk about it. I meant—I don't know. I guess I just meant that I get it. I feel the same way. Like I wish things had worked out but at the same time I'd hate if there was a little person of our own stuck in the middle of this pain."

Sighing, my shoulders slumped. "Yeah—that's exactly what I mean and how I feel." I looked down at my stomach, the one that had never carried a life to term. The one that had failed me. I laid my hand on across my abdomen, remembering the feeling of life that had been there for only a few moments, never to see the light of day. "Yeah," I whispered.

He reached for me, then pulled back. We both knew that we weren't there yet—in a place where touch was right. Not yet.

I stood up straight and looked around the kitchen again—at the flowers, the clean counters, the care he'd taken to make this space welcoming.

"You know what the hardest part of everything was?" I said suddenly. "It wasn't the forgotten birthdays or the delegated gifts. It was being alone. It was feeling like I didn't matter enough for you to try. Like after you poured yourself into your work, after I poured myself into mourning our loss, what we had together just wasn't enough to hold us together on its own and I didn't matter."

"You matter more than anything," he said fiercely. "You matter more than work, more than anything. I lost sight of that, but I see it now."

"This doesn't fix us," I said.

"I know."

"We have a lot of work to do."

"I know."

"It's work we probably should have been doing already."

"I know."

"So what now?"

He looked at me. "I think we should see someone—like a therapist, I mean."

I know surprised was splashed across my face. "Really? You'd do that? Go to couples' counseling?"

"There is something here that broke between us. Yes, I'm so much at fault, I can't even explain it. But I also recognize that rebuilding what we had—or building something new—I'm not... I just...I don't—I don't want to fuck it up any more than I already have Felicity." His voice was fierce.

I wanted to believe him. That he was willing to do this. God, I wanted to believe him. But wanting and trusting were two very different things.

"I can't," I said quietly. "I can't just take your word for it anymore, Caden. Not after everything."

His face fell, but he nodded. "What do you need from me?"

"Time," I said. "And proof. Real, sustained proof that this isn't just another crisis you'll solve and then forget about when life gets busy again."

"I'm in. I mean it, Felicity. I will do anything and everything for the rest of our lives if that's what it takes to prove it."

I wrapped my arms around myself. "I'll find someone. A therapist. Make the appointments."

"Let me look? Is that okay? I don't want you to have to do it. I fucked up, I should have to do the work. I can call the insurance and get a list. Then how about you and I talk through the list together and decide together."

"That's good. I like that. Thank you."

We stood there in the kitchen, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between us.

"The food smells good," I said finally, because I was hungry and exhausted.

"It's probably overcooked by now."

"I don't care."

But as he moved toward the oven, I added quietly, "I'm still sleeping in the guest room."

He stopped. "Okay."

"For a while. Maybe a long while."

"I understand."

"This conversation—tonight—it's not forgiveness, Caden. It's just acknowledgment that we both see the problem now."

"I know."

We ate mostly in silence. The food tasted like memory and effort and something I couldn't name. When we finished, I stood up.

"I should unpack."

"Do you need—"

"No. I can handle it."

Upstairs in the guest room, I sat on the bed and looked around at the space that would be mine for now. Maybe for a long time. Through the window, I could see my garden in the moonlight—overgrown but still there, still growing despite neglect.

I unpacked slowly, hanging my clothes in the closet. I put the new ones from Miami in the front. They made me smile. No matter what I was feeling right this moment, I could still smile at the thought of what this last weekend meant for me.

At the bottom of my suitcase, I found the receipt from the hotel spa and a few other mementos from my trip. The postcard I'd mailed to myself wouldn't arrive for a few days—with the postmark timestamping the end to my experience there—leaving with me a future reminder of the woman who'd remembered she was worth celebrating.

I thought about that woman, dancing barefoot on the beach, laughing with strangers who'd become friends for a night. She felt both like me and like someone I was still trying to become.

I turned off the light and lay in the dark, listening to him moving around downstairs, and wondered if wanting to fix something was enough when you weren't sure it could be fixed.