Love & All Things Broken

Sitting at the kitchen table long after she'd gone upstairs, I found myself staring at the two forks we'd shared and the empty plate between us. The house felt different with her in it—unexplainable, really—not whole, but less hollow than it had been while she was gone.

I pictured her sleeping in the guest room. My fingers itched to touch her—to play with her hair. My lips burned to kiss her face. My arms longed to just hold her. And my heart ached to repair hers.

I picked up the forks and walked to the sink, washing them slowly, deliberately. It felt meaningful to make sure the mess was cleaned up—a representation of the work I needed to do internally too. I wanted Felicity to wake in the morning knowing I spent time taking care of this—hoping she would see that I will do this exercise with everything messy and disastrous in our life.

The kitchen was spotless now. I'd spent hours making sure of it, but somehow it still didn't feel like enough. Nothing felt like enough.

I walked to the window and looked out at her garden—really looked at it this time. In the moonlight, I could make out the different areas, including the bench where she would probably sit in the morning tomorrow since the weather was going to be nice.

How many times had I walked past this window without seeing what she'd built? How many mornings had I missed her sitting out there, reading, thinking—just being?

I pressed my hand against the cool glass. The conversation kept replaying in my head—her voice breaking when she explained having to fly to another state to remember who she was. The way she'd looked at me when I listed the plants in her garden, shocked that I'd noticed anything at all.

Then why didn't any of that matter when it came to remembering my birthday?

Because I'm an idiot. I'd said it, and I'd meant it, but it felt too simple. Too easy. I wasn't just an idiot—I was a man who'd gotten so lost in his own priorities that he'd forgotten the most important thing in his life was sitting right next to him, slowly disappearing.

My phone buzzed.

Cash: How'd it go?

I stared at the screen, sighing as I tried to figure out how to answer. How did it go? She came home. She talked. She didn't leave. But she also didn't forgive me, and she shouldn't have.

Me: We talked, but she's still sleeping in the guest room.

Cash: Fuck. I'm sorry man.

Me: No, it's good. I mean, not good... but fair, you know?

Cash: You doing okay?

Me: We're going to try therapy.

Cash: That's something, yeah?

Me: Yeah. Maybe.

I set the phone down and walked through the house, turning off lights, checking the front door. Going through nighttime routine helped settle me—even though nothing about this was normal. At the bottom of the stairs, I stopped and listened. No sound from upstairs. She was probably passed out—exhausted from traveling and from everything we'd just been through.

I wanted to go to her. Not to try anything, not to push. Just to check— does she have enough blankets? Was the room too cold? Did she notice I had swapped out one of her pillows so I could still feel her with me? She probably did—she notices everything.

But I couldn't. I knew she wouldn't want me to come knocking tonight—for any reason. So, I walked by the room, grazing my fingers on the door lightly as I passed.

In our bedroom, I sat on the edge of the bed and looked around. Her jewelry box on the dresser. Her books on the nightstand. Pictures of us from various points over these last years—all scattered around like evidence of a life I'd somehow lost track of.

There was one from our second anniversary. We'd gone to that little inn in Vermont, spent the whole weekend hiking and talking and making love like we were still discovering each other. She was laughing in the photo, head thrown back, eyes bright with joy. I remember looking at her like she was the most amazing thing I'd ever seen—quickly snapping the shot to memorialize the moment.

When had I stopped looking at her like that—seeing her for this absolutely amazing woman?

The truth was, I did remember. I remembered who I used to be—the man who woke her up early to watch sunrises, who surprised her with concert tickets, who wanted to experience everything for the first time with her. That man was still in me—he'd just gotten buried under deadlines and deals and the relentless pace of trying to prove I was successful enough, important enough, worthy enough.

But worthy of what? I already had everything that mattered. I'd just been too busy to notice.

My phone buzzed again. This time it was Lauren.

Lauren: Saw you were online. Can we talk in the morning? I have something I need to show you?

Me: Yeah. Everything okay?

Lauren: I did some digging and found something odd. I want to review with you in person though. I have a file that we should go through. Nothing burning for the night, but was hoping we could get in early to review before the day gets away from us.

I stared at the message, annoyed that I would have to start my day with some sort of problem I'd probably have to solve already. I should probably get some rest since it seems like the day ahead may be a long one.

I set the phone aside and sat back on the bed, leaning against the headboard, still fully clothed.

Tomorrow I'd call the insurance company, get a list of therapists. Tomorrow I'd start the real work of earning her trust back. Tomorrow I'd begin the long process of becoming the husband she deserved instead of the one I'd been. Right after whatever Lauren needed to talk to me about.

I closed my eyes and made a promise to the woman sleeping down the hall, the woman who'd been strong enough to leave and brave enough to come back: I would earn her trust back. I would earn her. I would earn us. And even if Lauren told me that the company would fall apart by the end of the day, I would not put Felicity on the backburner—not again—not ever again.

____________

My eyes opened to a dark room with the light still on in the bathroom. I turned my neck and felt the telltale crick along it that told me I had fallen asleep in a shit position. I pulled myself up to sitting and looking at the clock could see it was 4:30. I was still in yesterday's clothes, discomfort radiating from my neck down my back. Damn I was too old to fall asleep in such a dumb position. For a moment I forgot—reached for my phone to check emails, started mentally running through my calendar—then it all came rushing back.

Felicity. Guest room. Therapy.

I stood up slowly, listening for sounds from down the hall. Nothing. She was probably still asleep—yesterday had been a long day for both of us.

I showered, dressed, and walked through my morning routine quietly trying not to waking her as I walked by where she was sleeping. In the kitchen, I made coffee for two, left hers in the pot with a note: Good morning. Coffee's fresh. I'll call about therapists today. – Love you, C

Simple. No grand declarations. No pressure. Just information and coffee.

____________

At the office by 6:30, I had the place mostly to myself. The quiet felt good—no distractions, no interruptions. Just me and the work I needed to do.

I pulled up our insurance website and navigated to the mental health section. It felt strange typing "couples therapy" into the search bar, but here I was.

The search results populated slowly. Pages and pages of names, credentials, specialties. Dr. Sarah Chen - Specializing in relationship counseling. Dr. Michael Rodriguez - Couples therapy, infidelity recovery, pre-marital counseling. Dr. Amanda Foster - Marriage and family therapy, trauma-informed care.

I started building a spreadsheet with details. Names, phone numbers, office locations, coverage percentages, specialties. By 7:15, I had fifteen solid options.

Dr. Jennifer Walsh seemed interesting. I went to her website and found she had evening and weekend appointments available. She specializes in couples rebuilding trust after betrayal. That part caught my eye. Her bio read: "Healing doesn't happen overnight, but with commitment from both partners, even the most damaged relationships can find their way back to love."

I added her name to the top of my list and hit save.

A knock on my door interrupted my thoughts. Lauren walked in carrying two coffee cups and a thick manila folder tucked under her arm.

"You're here early," she said, setting one coffee in front of me.

"Thanks. Yeah, wanted to get a head start on some things."

"Good." She settled into the chair across from my desk, clutching the folder. "How did things go last night? With Felicity?"

"She came home. We talked." I paused, not sure how much to share. "We're... figuring things out."

Lauren nodded slowly, then leaned back in her chair. "Well, speaking of figuring things out..." She held up the folder. Clearing her throat, she said, "Hold onto your hat, Caden. Your mind's about to be blown with what I found."

I looked at the folder, then back at her face. The expression there made my stomach clench.

"What kind of blown?"

"The kind that involves your ex-wife and some interesting information I came across regarding your expense reports and some discrepancies." She tapped the folder against her palm.

The coffee turned bitter in my mouth. "What are you talking about?"

Lauren's smile was sharp, dangerous. "Oh, we're just getting started. But first, tell me—have you been sending me payment requests from your personal email for the last few years?"

The ice-cold feeling that had been lurking at the edges of my consciousness all morning finally crystallized into pure dread.

"No," I said quietly. "No, I have not."

"That's what I thought." She placed the folder on my desk with deliberate care. "Because someone has. And I think we both know who."