Part 2The Frame She Left Empty

Someone once told me that emotional capacity differs from person to person.

Some people are wired so that romance can only ever occupy one percent of their lives.

I had believed that completely, and I had convinced myself that Meredith was simply one of those people.

That was why I made peace with having no couple photos throughout our eight years together. That was why I accepted her strict impartiality at the office—even though I was her husband, I had to earn every promotion on my own merit, and if I slipped up, I was chewed out just like anyone else.

Because work was her ninety-nine percent.

And in that sliver of one percent she reserved for love, she had held my hand in empty theaters during midnight horror movies. We had laughed together over bowls of over-whipped cream that collapsed into soup. She had pulled off her gardening gloves on Sunday afternoons just to brush stray grass clippings from my shoulder.

Until Cody showed up.

Meredith had always believed a workplace should be disciplined and uniform. The company handbook explicitly stated that office attire had to remain neutral—black, white, gray. Over the years, every stitch of color had quietly vanished from my own closet.

Then Cody walked in on his first day with his hair dyed fire-engine red.

Bubblegum pink hoodies. Pastel yellow cardigans. Cobalt blue jackets. His daily outfits were an explosion of noise. Human Resources tried repeatedly to rein him in, only to hit a brick wall, eventually bringing the grievance straight to Meredith’s desk.

That day, Cody had shown up in a multicolored satin varsity jacket that caught the afternoon sunlight like a prism.

Meredith had looked at him once and said, "He’s just an intern. The dress code doesn't apply to him."

It wasn't just the company rules that bent around him.

Even the sparse, tightly rationed affection I had spent years settling for seemed to pour out without limit whenever Cody was involved.

Just like right now.

Cody was skipping alongside Meredith, wearing a teddy-bear-shaped sling bag, chattering away without a break.

"Boss, were you always this gorgeous? You must have won the absolute genetic lottery!"

"Can I please get my full-time offer early? Pretty please? I swear I'll work myself to the bone for this firm!"

"Hey, I found these artisanal French chocolates down the street—can I write them off as travel expenses?"

His relentless noise turned heads all along the sidewalk.

Meredith was methodical, allergic to foolishness, and hated drawing public attention. Whenever I hit a snag on a project, she would always instruct me to do my research first. "A person shouldn't ask questions before thinking," she used to tell me. "It wastes everyone’s time, including your own."

Yet here she was, patiently answering every single one of Cody’s ridiculous questions.

When we arrived outside the glass pyramid of the Louvre, I pulled out the stack of tickets I had organized, distributing them one by one to the team.

When I reached Cody, my hands were empty.

Meredith frowned. "Did you miscount?"

"No. I booked seventeen tickets."

"Then you lost one."

Without arguing, I handed my own ticket to Cody. "I'll go back to the kiosk and buy another."

"Fine," Meredith said evenly. "Pay for it yourself, though. That won't come out of the company budget."

My steps faltered.

I knew she wasn't deliberately trying to punish me. In her rigid worldview, mistakes demanded personal accountability. I had supposedly lost a ticket, so even if the retreat fund had thousands of dollars left to spare, I wasn't entitled to a single cent of it.

Yet unbidden, a memory flashed through my mind: two weeks ago, Cody had accidentally drunk the last carton of specialty yogurt from the executive fridge. Meredith had quietly bought a replacement and slipped it back onto the shelf before anyone noticed, shielding him from embarrassment.

"You guys go ahead," I said quietly, stepping back. "I'll wait out here."