I Gave Him Ten Years, He Said I Didn’t Get Art Chapter 02

I Gave Him Ten Years, He Said I Didn’t Get Art Chapter 02

The next morning was Saturday. I was an early riser and started making breakfast in the kitchen.

A beep echoed from the entryway—the passcode lock unlocking. I assumed Thomas was returning from taking out the trash, but when I stepped out, two people stood in our foyer: Thomas and Mabel.

Mabel wore a pale khaki trench coat, carrying two ornately wrapped pastry boxes. Her face lit up in a bright smile the second she spotted me.

“Good morning, Holly”

“Morning.”

Thomas took the boxes from her hands and set them on the dining table.

“The gallery’s power is shut down for maintenance today, so Mabel came over to finalize the exhibition catalog layouts with me.”

“I’m so sorry to intrude, Holly!” Mabel stuck out her tongue playfully. “Tom is such a workaholic; he tunes everything else out once he starts creating. Please put up with him.”

Her words rolled off her tongue naturally, as if she were the one who knew every quirk of Thomas’s personality, and I was merely a stranger she needed to comfort.

“Take all the time you need.” I turned back to the kitchen and lowered the stove flame.

Thomas followed me inside.

“Holly, Mabel hasn’t had breakfast yet. Can you get her a bowl of oatmeal?”

“I only made enough for two people.”

“Then give her my portion. I’m not hungry.” He pulled open the cabinet, grabbed a bowl himself, ladled it high with oatmeal, and carried it back out.

I stared at the thin layer of leftover oatmeal coating the bottom of the pot, saying nothing.

Back at the table, Mabel stirred her oatmeal with a spoon.

“Wow, Holly, this is incredible—so thick and creamy! Tom is so lucky to have your cooking every day.”

“He rarely eats meals at home,” I told her.

“What?” Mabel feigned shock and glanced over at Thomas. “Tom, that’s terrible! Holly works so hard to cook for you, how can you skip it?”

“Work keeps me swamped,” Thomas replied absently, already spreading exhibition booth blueprints across the table. “Come look at this—does the lighting on the main display stand feel too dim?”

Mabel immediately set down her spoon and leaned in beside him, their heads pressed close as they pointed and debated the schematics.

I stood off to the side, invisible as a piece of background furniture.

“Holly,” Mabel suddenly looked up at me, “could you get me a glass of warm water with a slice of lemon? Thank you so much!”

She ordered me around without a hint of awkwardness, and Thomas didn’t bat an eye, never lifting his gaze from the drawings.

I fetched a plain glass of water and set it beside her.

“We don’t have any lemons left.”

“Oh, that’s fine—plain water works too.” She took a sip, then returned to her conversation with Thomas.

Once breakfast wrapped up, they moved their work to the carving bench by the windows.

Thomas picked up the knife he’d used for the snake carving, and Mabel watched, eyes sparkling with fascination.

“Tom, your hands are unbelievably steady! How do you carve each tiny scale perfectly? Teach me, just a little.”

“It’s tedious work—you won’t pick it up easily.”

“Just one tiny cut, please?” She reached out to grab the knife from his grasp.

The blade was razor-sharp. He’d set a hard rule: no one was allowed to touch his tools.

In years past, Thomas would frown sharply if I so much as stepped near his carving station.

Early on in our marriage, I’d knocked a flat carving knife off the table while wiping down the bench, and he’d flown into a rage, screaming that those blades were his livelihood—any nick to the edge ruined them permanently.

After that day, I never touched a single tool on his workbench again.

Now, he didn’t grow angry at all. Instead, he wrapped his hand over Mabel’s smaller one.

“Hold still—the blade’s sharp, you’ll cut yourself.” His voice dropped soft and warm, laced with fond, helpless indulgence.

“Just one quick cut!” Mabel gripped the knife’s handle, Thomas’s palm covering hers, their bodies positioned in an unmistakably intimate huddle as they sliced a shallow line across a scrap block of lumber.

“See? Wood has a natural grain—you have to carve along its fibers.”

“Wow, it really works! You’re amazing, Tom!” Mabel cheered.

I lingered in the living room’s corner, silently watching the scene unfold.

Ten years ago, I’d curiously asked if he could teach me to carve a tiny trinket, and he’d snapped, “Quit fooling around. Art isn’t some silly game to amuse you—don’t distract me.”

I realized then art wasn’t off-limits for casual play. It was only off-limits to me.

My phone rang; it was Jenna.

“Holly, are you home? I’ll be there in thirty minutes with fried chicken from that popular shop downtown.”

“I’m home.”

“Is Thomas there?”

“He’s here, along with his curator.”

Jenna let out a cold laugh over the line.

“Perfect. I’d love to meet this so-called perfect curator of his.”

I hung up and walked over to clear the dining table, where Mabel’s two pastry boxes still sat unopened—luxury limited-edition desserts from a famous French patisserie.

“Holly, go ahead and dig into those pastries!” Mabel called over from the bench. “Tom said you get bored stuck at home all day and just snack on sweets to pass the time, so I waited in a long line just to buy these for you.”

Bored, passing time with candy? I woke at six every morning to cook breakfast, clean the entire house, then head to my full-time office job.

When I got home each evening, I sorted his endless messy expense logs and gallery shipping records for hours.

To Thomas, I was just a useless housewife with nothing better to do than snack on sugar.

“I don’t like sweet food,” I said, pushing the pastry boxes aside and grabbing a cleaning rag to wipe the table.

Thomas finally looked up.

“Mabel waited ages in line for those. Weren’t you crazy about their macarons once?”

“You’re confusing me with your ex. She was the one who loved them.”

Dead silence fell over the living room. Thomas’s face darkened instantly.

“Holly, how can you say something so rude in front of a guest?”

“I’m just correcting your memory.” I gathered the dirty bowls and carried them to the kitchen, shutting the awkward silence out behind me as I closed the door.

Water rushed over the ceramic plates as I stared at swirling soap bubbles in the sink.

Once, a comment like that would’ve left me heartbroken for hours. Now it only struck me as ridiculous.

He couldn’t remember I hated sugar, yet he memorized Mabel’s preference for lemon-infused warm water.

That kind of biased favoritism was his second nature—and I wasn’t even worthy enough to be remembered at all.