The next morning, I followed the address into the countryside to find a restored cottage hidden among tall trees. Biscuit jumped out and sprinted straight to the door—he knew the place. Inside was a greenhouse, a workshop, and a pottery wheel sitting beneath an old photograph of me making a crooked clay bowl seventeen years ago.
When Nathan arrived, I broke down and admitted I had feared he was having an affair. Instead, he had spent five years of Saturdays secretly building a place for my forgotten dreams. “You stopped choosing,” he said gently. “I wanted to give you something to choose again.”
That morning, years of quiet doubt finally vanished. I planted the first tomato seedling in the greenhouse, surrounded by uneven rows and unfinished walls. Nothing was perfect, but for the first time in years, our life was whole, honest, and completely ours.
