It was Christmas Eve, but the warmth of the season felt distant. The house was decorated beautifully—twinkling lights, a tree bursting with ornaments—but the tension was thick. Two days ago, my wife and I had a massive argument. Rumors about me dating other girls had reached her ears, and no matter how much I tried to convince her otherwise, she wouldn’t listen. She wouldn’t even look at me.

I sat on the couch, staring at the kids playing by the fireplace. They had spent most of their time with her. Watching them, an idea struck me. If anyone knew how to reach her, it was our kids.

I walked over and knelt beside them, lowering my voice. "Hey, guys. Can I ask you something?"

Lucas, our oldest at six, looked up curiously, while little Sophie, four, clutched her stuffed bear.

“What does Mommy love? Like, her favorite things—besides you two, of course,” I asked, trying to sound casual.

Lucas tilted his head, thinking. “She loves those chocolates with the gold wrappers,” he finally said.

“And flowers,” Sophie chimed in. “The pink ones.”

I smiled, ruffling their hair. “Thanks, team. You’ve just saved Christmas.”

Later that evening, as the kids played upstairs and she worked in the kitchen, I left the house. By the time I got back, my hands were full: a massive bouquet of pink roses and a box of her favorite chocolates.

She was at the counter, putting the finishing touches on the Christmas dinner. The golden light of the kitchen made her look so beautiful, even as she tried to pretend I didn’t exist.

I cleared my throat, stepping into the doorway. She didn’t look up.

“Hey,” I said softly, setting the flowers and chocolates on the counter beside her.

Still nothing.

I sighed, my voice cracking just slightly. “Please… just talk to me. Let me explain. I’d never hurt you, you know that.”

Her hands froze mid-motion. I could see her shoulders tense as I leaned closer, my heart aching. “I love you. More than anything. Please… just listen to me.”