And then one evening, he came home carrying a small velvet box. My heart pounded as I rehearsed my smile. Would it be a gift for me? A peace offering? Proof of my foolish doubt?
He walked past me without stopping. Instead, he handed the box to our daughter, Emily.
Her eyes filled with tears. “Thank you, Dad.”
I forced my face to behave, swallowing questions I wasn’t ready to ask.
A Gift That Didn’t Fit
Later, after Emily had gone upstairs, I brought it up gently. “That necklace… it must have been expensive.”
He shrugged. “I know it was a lot. But she’s been working so hard. I wanted her to feel special.”
It wasn’t the answer I feared. Not exactly. Yet the unease didn’t leave me. The perfume lingered. The excuses multiplied. The distance between us grew like a crack widening across glass.
That night I lay awake, my mind racing. Something inside me whispered: keep looking.
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