I watched him reach into his pocket and pull out the black velvet box, sliding it across the oak tabletop.
The wood was dry, and the box made a soft, scraping sound before it stopped near my butter knife.
I let out a short laugh, the sound dry and thin in the quiet room.
“What is this?” I asked.
“Happy anniversary, Liv,” he said.
“Nolan, we said we were not doing gifts this year,” I said.
“I know,” he said.
Our twenty-six years of marriage had been marked by incredibly practical things. There was the heavy-duty orange extension cord for our fifth, the battery-powered lantern for our twelfth, and the steel step-stool three years ago.
I reached out and flipped the small brass clasp on the box.
Inside, resting on a bed of white satin, was a delicate white gold bracelet. The links were tiny, woven together like frozen lace, catching the morning light that filtered through the window.
I did not touch it yet. I looked at Nolan, whose hand was already resting on his gold wedding band, twisting it around his knuckle.
“It is beautiful,” I said.
“You deserve something nice for once,” he said.
The words felt heavy, landing between us like a physical weight on the clean wood.
“Where did you get this, Nolan?” I asked.
“The jewelry store by the grocery store,” he said. “In the strip mall.”
I lifted the bracelet from the satin. It was incredibly light, almost cold against my palm, and I knew without looking at a price tag that it had cost more than any gift he had ever given me.
“It must have been expensive,” I said.
“It does not matter,” he said, his voice flat.
He looked away, his eyes scanning the backyard where the yellow maple leaves were beginning to pile against the fence.
