I Gave Him Ten Years, He Said I Didn’t Get Art Chapter 01

I Gave Him Ten Years, He Said I Didn’t Get Art Chapter 01

Thomas Hill had carved wood for twelve years, and I’d stood by his side through every single stage—from hawking his work on street corners to seeing his pieces displayed at the National Art Museum.

Back when he was dead broke, I’d emptied out all my savings to buy lumber for him, surviving on nothing but steamed buns for three whole months.

I’d only ever asked one small favor of him.

“Could you carve a rose for me? It doesn’t need elaborate detailing—just a quick rough carving will do.”

He kept his head down, never pausing his carving knife. “All my artwork is made solely for exhibitions. I don’t give pieces away as gifts.”

I said nothing more and never brought it up again.

Two days prior, I’d helped him sort his exhibition inventory list and spotted a line item in the outbound log with a note: Not for sale, private gift.

Nine separate pieces marked this way within a single month.

Every recipient shared the same name—Mabel Quinn, his newly signed curator.

I headed over to Mabel’s gallery that afternoon.

A lifelike wooden tiger with amber inlaid eyes sat proudly on the reception desk, fierce and imposing. Around the gallery’s corner rested a carved wooden rabbit.

Her office desk was even more telling: seven small wooden animal figurines lined up in a row, the newest one delivered that very morning.

The young receptionist noticed me staring and spoke up warmly.

“Mr. Hill drops these off in person every dawn. He says he’s collecting twelve different animals for Ms. Quinn.”

I brushed my bare wrist with my palm.

Ten years by his side, and I’d never received even a tiny wooden blossom from him.

I stepped out of the gallery without shedding a single tear, and went straight to hire a lawyer to draft divorce papers.

Every piece of wood beneath his blade bloomed with life—every piece, except me. I was nothing but scrap timber, too worthless to even be used as kindling.

***

“Filing a divorce petition requires a thirty-day waiting period,” the clerk behind the Clerk’s Office counter told me. “Once the waiting period ends, if both parties reach no disputes, a judge will sign the final Divorce Decree.”

“Understood, thank you.”

I walked out of the building as frigid wind whipped across my cheeks. My mind was clearer than it had ever been in a decade.

My phone buzzed, and a voice message popped up from Jenna Taylor.

“Holly, where are you? I stopped by your office and your boss said you took a half-day.”

I slipped my earbuds in and replied on my walk to the subway station.

“I had personal errands to run.”

“What kind of ‘errand’ are you hiding from me? You sound completely checked out.”

“Jenna.”

“Yeah?”

“I picked up the divorce application forms.”

Silence stretched on the line for a full ten seconds.

“You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“What did Thomas do? Is he seeing someone else?”

“It’s worse than cheating.”

I glanced at my pale reflection in the subway platform glass, my gaze steady and unshaken.

“He threw out every single rule he’d lived by his whole life—all for another woman.”

I hung up the call and boarded the subway home.

I exited the station, crossed the traffic light, climbed the stairs, and unlocked our front door. The familiar scent of wood shavings filled the entryway.

Thomas sat at his carving workbench by the living room floor-to-ceiling windows.

He wore a pale gray linen shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows, gripping a flat carving knife as he pared away at a block of dark red timber, fine wood shavings drifting down onto his apron.

He heard the door open but didn’t lift his head.

“You’re home?”

“Mhm.”

I slipped off my slippers and stepped beside him.

He was mid-carve on a snake; its scales had already taken shape, each one exquisitely detailed, glowing with the deep, rich grain of red sandalwood.

“This lumber looks familiar,” I said.

His knife faltered for a split second, and he blew loose shavings off the surface gently.

“I dug it out of storage the other day.”

“I pawned my mom’s gold bracelet ten years ago to buy this exact block of red sandalwood for you, all the way oversea.”

His carving movements halted entirely. He twisted to face me, eyebrows drawn tight.

“What’s gotten into you today? You’re speaking in these snide half-sentences.”

“Nothing. I just recognized the wood.”

“Lumber’s meant to be carved and used.”

“You swore back then this block was far too precious, that you’d save it to craft a masterpiece meant to outlive us both.”

He set down his knife and picked up sandpaper to smooth the snake’s tail.

“Mabel’s gallery is hosting her solo Zodiac exhibition next month. She’s short on standout centerpiece sculptures, and this red sandalwood has perfect oil density for intricate fine work.”

Mabel. He said her name so casually, like commenting on the weather.

“So she needed extra artwork, and you dug out that priceless sandalwood you refused to touch for a decade just to fill gaps for her?”

“It’s not about filling gaps, it’s about the exhibition’s overall impact.” Impatience edged his tone. “Holly, we’re married. My success is your success. Everything I make and every award I get benefits us both.”

“You don’t understand art, so stop nitpicking.”

Nitpick.

I remembered the night I pawned my bracelet for his lumber: he’d dropped to his knees on our cramped rental’s thin mattress, clinging to me and vowing he’d give me the good life I deserved.

Now I was the petty, nitpicking wife.

“You hand-deliver new Zodiac carvings to her gallery every single morning—all in the name of art?”

Thomas finally set his tools aside and turned fully to face me.

“You went to her gallery?”

“I did. Saw her whole table covered in your wooden animal collection.”

“Were you spying on me?”

“I went to cross-check your exhibition inventory for next month’s show.”

“Mabel’s my curator. She needs sculptures to elevate her gallery’s prestige; gifting her a few small pieces is completely standard.”

“Not for sale, private gift—that’s standard gallery protocol?”

Thomas drew a deep breath, holding back clear irritation.

“She secured me a recommendation spot at the National Art Museum. A handful of quick little carved trinkets are just a thank-you favor—what’s wrong with that?”

Quick little trinkets.

Twelve years prior, I’d begged him to carve a single rose for me, and he’d claimed his art existed only for exhibits, never for gifting.

It turned out his rule only applied to me. For Mabel, he could gift a brand-new carving every single day.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I replied evenly, meeting his eyes. “You’re right—debts of gratitude ought to be repaid.”

He stared at me, clearly thrown by my lack of tears or anger. In past fights over his neglect, I’d always cried and begged for explanations. Today, I didn’t shed a single tear.

“I’m glad you understand.” He spun back to his workbench and picked up his knife again. “I won’t be home for dinner tonight. Mabel needs to go over last-minute exhibition details at the gallery, so I’m heading over.”

“Alright.”

As he carved, his phone lit up beside the bench—an incoming message. Standing close, I caught a glimpse of the screen.

Mabel: [Tom, is that little snake finished yet? I can’t wait to run my fingers over its scales!]

Thomas set his knife down and typed a rapid reply.

[Almost done. I’ll bring it by tonight for you to see.]

I walked to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of lukewarm water. The cool liquid slid down my throat.

I patted the folded papers tucked inside my purse. Thirty days left. In thirty days, the smell of wood shavings in this house won’t be my problem anymore.