Some say love is meant to be broken. It's made to be tested and pushed to its very limit. Sometimes it's good to see how strong your bond is. Is it flimsy and can fall apart at the slightest gust of wind, or is it strong enough to survive a tornado? Of course sometimes love can be a wall that is built up around you, only to find that it was fake the entire time.
Making shoes is something that has been going on in my family for generations. My father taught me just as his father before him. He taught me everything from the best materials to use for the best comfort, to stitching them in a way that will make them last longer. And ever since his unfortunate passing, he gave me all his tools and materials for making shoes.
In his memory and our family's honor, I opened up a shoe store where every shoe inside was custom made by me. It doesn't take too long to make each shoe. And my wife helps me a lot with the stitching so we can increase the stock every week.
I love my wife. She's about as into the craft of creating shoes as I am. Granted, she used to help make shirts and shorts for her parents as a kid. She and I actually met at a crafts shop. I was in there to buy materials and I left with a stolen heart. We'd been talking and sharing our crafts every day until eventually we got married.
Not a day goes by that I don't tell my wife I love her. I even surprise her with shoes I know she'll love on her birthdays and anniversaries.
Of course I haven't been able to do much lately because my health isn't exactly in the best possible shape. I've been relying on her more and more to help with the shoes for the store. That was, before we had to close it down. We couldn't afford to keep the lights running with all the medical bills piling up.
As I became sicker and sicker, I couldn't help but notice she was going out more often, leaving me home alone. I didn't know what she was out there doing but I trusted her.
One day while she was gone I made her a pair of shoes in secret. She had no idea I was making them, but I knew everything she loved in shoes, from her favorite colors to her preferred level of softness in the shoes. It's a project I'd been working on for a few weeks at this point.
Finally, they were finished. And just in time for her birthday. I wrapped them up while she was gone, and waited in the living room until she came back. But as I waited longer and longer, I became worried. I tried calling and texting her, saying I have a surprise for her when she gets home. I stayed up and waited but I never saw her come back. When I fell asleep on the couch that night, it was the last time I'd fall into a slumber, for I was not going to be waking up the next morning.
I came home after taking some time away with a friend. I hated seeing my husband like that, and I needed a break from making all these shoes. Since we shut the store down, he's been making shoes with me and selling them online to help pay for his medical treatments.
I walked through the door and staggered back when I saw my husband slumped over on the couch. He wasn't breathing. I called an ambulance to come get him. He can't die on me.
In between sobs, I noticed a box cradled in his hands. There was a card on it that read 'Happy Birthday'. Had he stayed up all night to give this to me? This just made me cry harder. I felt terrible for not coming home sooner.
After the ambulance came and took him away, I opened his gift. It was a beautiful, sparking black pair of platform shoes. I put my hand on the inside, it was some kind of soft cushion like material. I was in love with them.
A few days had passed since the passing of my husband. His funeral was scheduled for next week. I was absolutely torn up about his death since I was the one responsible for it. I'd had reoccurring nightmares of him asking me why I didn't come home. There wasn't an easy way to tell him, so I never did.
I got in my car with my shoes on he'd made for me. I always wear them to honor his memory.
Some time later, I arrived at my best friend's house. He was a really good looking guy that treated me better than anyone ever had. He listened to me and knew exactly how I liked things. And he was the best at comforting me, especially now that my husband was gone.
I came in and sat next to him on his couch. He held me close and tight, letting me cry on his shoulder.
"It's the first time I've seen you since the incident," he said. "What happened when you left?"
"Hun," I started. "After I got home from what we did together, he was waiting for me to come home. He'd stayed up all night for me. I didn't have my phone on to see all the missed calls and texts from him. It's all my fault." I sobbed even harder onto his shoulder. I could feel my tears soaking through his shirt.
"Babe, you did nothing wrong," he assured me. "I'm the one that pushed you into staying late. I kissed you first."
I pushed myself back from him. I didn't even want to think about that night. I hated what I did, especially because of what followed when I came home. He had been so sick that he hadn't been able to touch me like that in months. I couldn't help myself.
I suddenly felt myself stand up and turn toward the door. What was happening?
"Where are you going?" he asked.
I tried as hard as I could to tell him, but all that came out was, "I'm sorry I have to go."
I felt my hand jerk up and turn the knob and head outside. I walked down the porch and past my car. Where were my legs taking me?
I tried as hard as I could to stop myself but my body wouldn't comply. I walked and walked until I heard the horn of a train. The train tracks were right in front of me. I hoped that I would walk past them, but instead I stopped and faced where the train was supposed to be coming from. I tried as hard as I could to jerk my legs away from the tracks but they wouldn't budge. All I could do was wait for the train.
"What do you think happened here, boss?" I asked the officer standing next to me. We were overlooking a dead body that had splattered all over train tracks.
"It looks like a suicide," he replied. "The tags on those shoes say 'Happy Birthday' and the inscription of that shoe store that was here a few years back. I think it might have been the wife that was dead.
"You think she killed herself after her husband died?" I asked. He nodded.
Making shoes is something that has been going on in my family for generations. My father taught me just as his father before him. He taught me everything from the best materials to use for the best comfort, to stitching them in a way that will make them last longer. And ever since his unfortunate passing, he gave me all his tools and materials for making shoes.
In his memory and our family's honor, I opened up a shoe store where every shoe inside was custom made by me. It doesn't take too long to make each shoe. And my wife helps me a lot with the stitching so we can increase the stock every week.
I love my wife. She's about as into the craft of creating shoes as I am. Granted, she used to help make shirts and shorts for her parents as a kid. She and I actually met at a crafts shop. I was in there to buy materials and I left with a stolen heart. We'd been talking and sharing our crafts every day until eventually we got married.
Not a day goes by that I don't tell my wife I love her. I even surprise her with shoes I know she'll love on her birthdays and anniversaries.
Of course I haven't been able to do much lately because my health isn't exactly in the best possible shape. I've been relying on her more and more to help with the shoes for the store. That was, before we had to close it down. We couldn't afford to keep the lights running with all the medical bills piling up.
As I became sicker and sicker, I couldn't help but notice she was going out more often, leaving me home alone. I didn't know what she was out there doing but I trusted her.
One day while she was gone I made her a pair of shoes in secret. She had no idea I was making them, but I knew everything she loved in shoes, from her favorite colors to her preferred level of softness in the shoes. It's a project I'd been working on for a few weeks at this point.
Finally, they were finished. And just in time for her birthday. I wrapped them up while she was gone, and waited in the living room until she came back. But as I waited longer and longer, I became worried. I tried calling and texting her, saying I have a surprise for her when she gets home. I stayed up and waited but I never saw her come back. When I fell asleep on the couch that night, it was the last time I'd fall into a slumber, for I was not going to be waking up the next morning.
I came home after taking some time away with a friend. I hated seeing my husband like that, and I needed a break from making all these shoes. Since we shut the store down, he's been making shoes with me and selling them online to help pay for his medical treatments.
I walked through the door and staggered back when I saw my husband slumped over on the couch. He wasn't breathing. I called an ambulance to come get him. He can't die on me.
In between sobs, I noticed a box cradled in his hands. There was a card on it that read 'Happy Birthday'. Had he stayed up all night to give this to me? This just made me cry harder. I felt terrible for not coming home sooner.
After the ambulance came and took him away, I opened his gift. It was a beautiful, sparking black pair of platform shoes. I put my hand on the inside, it was some kind of soft cushion like material. I was in love with them.
A few days had passed since the passing of my husband. His funeral was scheduled for next week. I was absolutely torn up about his death since I was the one responsible for it. I'd had reoccurring nightmares of him asking me why I didn't come home. There wasn't an easy way to tell him, so I never did.
I got in my car with my shoes on he'd made for me. I always wear them to honor his memory.
Some time later, I arrived at my best friend's house. He was a really good looking guy that treated me better than anyone ever had. He listened to me and knew exactly how I liked things. And he was the best at comforting me, especially now that my husband was gone.
I came in and sat next to him on his couch. He held me close and tight, letting me cry on his shoulder.
"It's the first time I've seen you since the incident," he said. "What happened when you left?"
"Hun," I started. "After I got home from what we did together, he was waiting for me to come home. He'd stayed up all night for me. I didn't have my phone on to see all the missed calls and texts from him. It's all my fault." I sobbed even harder onto his shoulder. I could feel my tears soaking through his shirt.
"Babe, you did nothing wrong," he assured me. "I'm the one that pushed you into staying late. I kissed you first."
I pushed myself back from him. I didn't even want to think about that night. I hated what I did, especially because of what followed when I came home. He had been so sick that he hadn't been able to touch me like that in months. I couldn't help myself.
I suddenly felt myself stand up and turn toward the door. What was happening?
"Where are you going?" he asked.
I tried as hard as I could to tell him, but all that came out was, "I'm sorry I have to go."
I felt my hand jerk up and turn the knob and head outside. I walked down the porch and past my car. Where were my legs taking me?
I tried as hard as I could to stop myself but my body wouldn't comply. I walked and walked until I heard the horn of a train. The train tracks were right in front of me. I hoped that I would walk past them, but instead I stopped and faced where the train was supposed to be coming from. I tried as hard as I could to jerk my legs away from the tracks but they wouldn't budge. All I could do was wait for the train.
"What do you think happened here, boss?" I asked the officer standing next to me. We were overlooking a dead body that had splattered all over train tracks.
"It looks like a suicide," he replied. "The tags on those shoes say 'Happy Birthday' and the inscription of that shoe store that was here a few years back. I think it might have been the wife that was dead.
"You think she killed herself after her husband died?" I asked. He nodded.
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