Ten Years Too Much

Inside the safe was a portrait of me, protected by an elegant frame. He had drawn it for me to commemorate my graduation.

It had been ten years, and throughout that time, it remained a treasure to me. It was so valuable that I had stored it in the safe, fearing someone might steal it.

But now, I no longer wanted it.

I tore the frame apart.

The portrait? I ripped it to pieces.

Tears rolled down my cheeks as I shoved the remnants into the trash and went downstairs.

Ronan had returned with a cake.

"A student asked me to tutor their painting, so I had to be late," he explained, as he often did. "Sorry to have kept you waiting."

In the past, I would have believed him without question. I would have removed his coat as soon as he stepped inside.

But today, I stayed on the couch, my eyes fixed on my book. "Oh."

He placed the cake on the coffee table.

"What's with you?" he asked, a hint of displeasure in his voice.

"Nothing."

"You're not going to help me take off my coat?"

I studied his angular features—a pair of gold-rimmed glasses perched on his chiseled nose. He looked every bit the gentleman, refined and mild-mannered.

Ronan James, a respected painter and art professor. He was also the man I had loved for ten years—my husband.

I thought I would confront him as soon as he returned, but I didn't feel the urge to speak.

Earlier…

Today was our tenth wedding anniversary.

I had dressed up in a special dress and had my hair done at the salon before meeting him.

It was the first time his wife was visiting his academy, so I wanted to make sure I made a good impression.

I brought a watch along to the academy, intending it to be a surprise.

I found the studio and waited inside.

It was filled with all sorts of paintings—his work. Although I didn't fully understand art, everything Ronan created was beautiful to me.

I stepped up to the dais and randomly grabbed a stack of papers.

All of them depicted young female bodies, but none had faces.

One portrait carried these words: "Why? Why does perfection elude me?"

I had long known that Ronan sought to capture the perfect portrait, but I never understood what he meant by "perfection." To me, his art was already flawless.

I heard footsteps and hid behind the curtains, eager to surprise him.

But instead, I was the one who was surprised.

I overheard a young woman's voice. "Please don't tell anyone about today, Mr. James."

"I won't. It's your private matter, after all."

I peeked out from behind the curtains.

The woman was seated in a chair, while Ronan stood nearby, brush in hand.

I knew her—Christine McKenna. She had visited our home several times, always bringing cookies and desserts she made for her beloved professor.