I Gave Him Ten Years, He Said I Didn’t Get Art Chapter 10

I Gave Him Ten Years, He Said I Didn’t Get Art Chapter 10

The thirty-day divorce waiting period ended on a bright, cloudless day.

I’d handed full control of all divorce proceedings to my lawyer weeks earlier.

At eleven o’clock that morning, my lawyer called to confirm all paperwork had been finalized.

Thomas hadn’t fought the process any further.

The lawyer told me his hands shook violently the entire time he signed the documents, his pen hovering motionless over the page for minutes on end–but he put his signature down without protest once I’d held firm to my decision.

He’d sold the Manhattan apartment that had once been our shared home and transferred every dollar from the sale into my bank account.

I didn’t send the money back. It was compensation I’d fully earned after ten years of sacrifice.

At three in the afternoon, sunlight slanted through the flower shop’s floor-to-ceiling windows, spilling over a bucket of freshly delivered sunflowers.

A delivery man pushed open the glass door and handed me a moderately sized, surprisingly heavy

parcel.

The return address only bore one single surname: Hill.

I set the package on the register counter and sliced through the packing tape with scissors. Thick foam packing pellets spilled across the wood as I peeled back layers of protective wrap, revealing

two items inside.

Resting on top lay a Divorce Decree. I didn’t open it, simply set it aside on the counter.

The second object was wrapped in endless layers of foam padding.

When I peeled away the final sheet, my fingers stilled for a split second.

It was a carving sculpted from a single solid block of premium red sandalwood-an extremely rare, precious lumber with tight, intricate grain that shimmered with a deep burgundy sheen under light.

The craftsmanship surpassed anything I’d ever seen him create.

The carving depicted a tiny sapling breaking free from clumps of earth, its thin trunk curved

slightly as if straining upward to escape the soil that trapped it.

Every root fiber, every delicate shoot at its crown was carved with microscopic precision.

Its two seedling leaves retained soft, uncurled edges, so lifelike they seemed ready to tremble at the lightest touch of a finger.

The cracked earth surrounding the sapling was carved with rough, jagged uneven strokes, a stark

textured contrast against the flawlessly smooth foliage.

No stiff, mechanical craftsman’s touch marred the piece-every cut overflowed raw unfiltered

emotion.

It looked as though he’d poured every ounce of his strength into every single knife stroke.

Etched into the base of the sapling were a line of tiny characters in his handwriting, pressed deeper than any carving I’d ever seen from him, the strokes trembling slightly at every sharp turn: For Holly: Everything has a soul, yet you remain the one withered regret woven into the very fiber of my life.

I could clearly picture the tormented, self-punishing mindset in which he’d carved those words in.

Locked alone inside his workshop day after day, with nothing but the scraping of blade against timber for company-he’d carved every ounce of his lifetime of remorse into this single piece of

wood.

If this sculpture had been submitted to an art exhibition, it would have sparked a frenzy among collectors and critics alike.

It was the finest work Thomas had ever created in his twelve years of carving.

It was also the only piece of art he’d ever gifted to me.

I stood silently, staring at the wooden sapling carving for a long moment.

No surge of warmth, no twinge of sorrow, no bitter triumph stirred within my chest. Only quiet, empty calm.

Ten years earlier, receiving this gift would have brought me to tears of joy. I would have thought he’d finally come to his senses, displayed the sapling front and center on my bookshelf, dusting its surface every single day.

Now, it was nothing more than a block of wood. A masterfully carved, valuable block of wood I no

longer needed.

I picked up the Divorce Decree, pulled open the bottom drawer of the register counter, and tucked it deep into the back.

The drawer slid shut with a dull thud.

Then I lifted the heavy red sandalwood sapling carving and carried it to the empty work table tucked into the far corner of the flower shop.

I bent down and slid the priceless sculpture neatly beneath one wobbly table leg as a shim to level the surface.

I pressed my palm flat against the tabletop; it sat perfectly steady, no longer rocking at all.

It made a perfectly steady base.

“Shop owner!”

A cheerful young female voice called from the doorway.

I straightened up to see a girl in a denim jacket poke her head through the glass door, hair tied in a messy bun, a bright smile stretched across her face.

“Do you still have those sunflowers you promised to hold for me yesterday?”

“I do, I set them aside just for you.”

I brushed dust off my palms and walked over to the flower bucket.

I pulled out the full bouquet of sunflowers, their golden petals blazing bright under the shop’s

sunlight.

I unfurled a sheet of kraft wrapping paper, gathered the stems neatly, folded the paper’s edges, and tied a neat twine bow around the bouquet.

My own smile bloomed bright under the warm light streaming through the windows.

“I’ll wrap this up for you right away.”

The girl took the wrapped bouquet, breathed in its sweet scent, paid at the register, and hurried

back out the door.

The wind chime above the entrance sang a lingering melody after she left.

Sunlight glinted off the grain of the red sandalwood carving wedged under the table leg in the

corner.

I never spared it a second glance, turning back to refill water in all the flower buckets lining the

walls.

Water rushed from the tap, cool droplets splashing lightly over the backs of my hands.

My brand-new life was only just beginning.

(End)