They argued about the object the night it arrived. He spoke about value, timing, how rare it was to find something like this at that price. She asked where it would sit, what it needed, whether they had really considered it. Its scale. Its presence. The attention it would demand. The way it would alter the room and the habits around it. He said it would work itself out. Objects always did.

Days passed. The object remained untouched, half acknowledged, half defended. Each time she raised a question, he answered with justification. Each time he explained, something thinned between them. Not disagreement, but trust.

Weeks later, the object no longer provoked discussion. It remained in place, maintained by routine rather than intention, sustained by the same logic that had justified its arrival. That was when she understood the loss. Not of money, or judgement, or taste, but of foresight abandoned at the moment of commitment.