I tightened my hold on the strap of my bag. The small box tucked inside felt heavier with every step, as though it had gained weight just from being here. I gave a slow, stiff nod.
“Milo’s—”
Before I could finish, a child slammed straight into me. I stumbled and hit the floor hard, scraping my wrist against the tiles. The box nearly flew from my grip. I lunged for it, catching it at the last second.
“Watch where you’re going!” I snapped.
When I looked up, it was Noah. Elise’s son. He stood over me with open hostility in his eyes.
“You’re the one who should watch it!” he yelled. “Why did you even come back here?”
Adrian’s voice thundered through the room. “That’s enough, Noah. Don’t talk like that. And you—” he shot me a glare, “—he’s just a kid. Don’t start trouble.”
Elise quickly stepped forward as if the house belonged to her. She placed her hand lightly over Adrian’s chest and tilted her face up toward his, soft and gentle, like she fit there perfectly.
“Please don’t be upset,” she murmured sweetly. “I’m sorry if we caused any problems… Noah and I can leave if it’s uncomfortable.”
Adrian’s jaw tightened. He pointed straight at me.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he told her firmly. “She did.”
Something tore inside my chest. I could almost feel it rip open. That was when I understood—they were already a family. And I was nothing but an intruder haunting the hallway.
Suddenly, Noah lunged at my bag.
“Is there food in there? I’m starving!” he shouted.
The box slipped from my grasp again and hit the floor with a dull, hollow thud.
“No!” I cried out. “Don’t touch that!”
Noah reached for it with his dirty hands. “What’s inside? Can I eat it?!”
I shoved him away without hesitation. I didn’t think. I didn’t care. I had already lost too much to start being careful now.
Adrian exploded. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?! He’s a child! Do you think shoving kids is acceptable now?!”
Noah screamed and grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking hard. Pain shot through my scalp, sharp and blinding. I clenched my teeth to keep myself from sobbing.
“It’s Milo’s,” I whispered brokenly. “That’s… that’s my son—”
Elise gently tugged on Adrian’s arm. “Let it go,” she soothed. “If it belongs to Milo, then Noah shouldn’t be playing with it anyway.”
Adrian scoffed coldly. “This is my house. I decide who’s allowed to touch what.”
I gathered the box against my chest like a shield and turned away without another word, walking straight to the bedroom.
Behind me, Adrian snorted as if I were being dramatic. I heard him muttering something under his breath before escorting Elise and Noah out as if they were honored guests.
That night, I packed my clothes quietly. I filled out the divorce papers with shaking hands. I set Milo’s urn beside me on the bed and stared at it for hours without blinking.
---
That same night, Milo came to me in my dreams again.
He was crying. Lost. Barefoot in a never-ending hallway made entirely of glass. The walls were spotless, reflecting nothing—only white light and silence and emptiness. His small voice echoed endlessly as he wandered.
“Dad? Daddy? Where are you?”
He wasn’t calling for me. He was searching for Adrian.
In the dream, my chest split apart. I chased after him, reaching out, running as fast as I could—but I never caught him. He always stayed just beyond my grasp. Those little hands that once clung to me whenever he was afraid kept slipping farther away.
I fell to my knees, shaking and begging.
“I’m sorry, my baby… I’m so sorry.”
I repeated it again and again.
“I should’ve protected you. I shouldn’t have left you there.”
When I woke up, I was already kneeling beside the bed. My hands were clasped tightly together, still praying. Praying that wherever he was, he wasn’t in pain anymore. Praying that suffering hadn’t followed him beyond death.
The room was silent. Adrian’s massive glass mansion stretched endlessly around me—sleek walls, cold air, polished emptiness. It was a house designed to impress strangers, not to shelter families. Certainly not to mourn children.
I wrapped my arms around my drawn-up knees. My pillow was soaked through, my nightgown clinging damply to my skin. My chest burned as if something vital had been carved away beneath my ribs.
And then the memories returned.
The slow change. The way Adrian’s affection didn’t vanish all at once—but cracked and dried, like a riverbed under relentless sun.
When Elise came back, everything shifted. He started speaking about Noah like he was something precious.
“Noah’s intelligent,” he said one night, as if it were undeniable truth. “Well-mannered. Strong. Healthy.”
Not like Milo.
He never said those last words aloud.
But I heard them anyway. Because weeks before Milo became desperately ill, Adrian had stared straight at me and said,
“I sometimes question whether that boy is even mine. And if he is—he’s clearly not fit to be an heir. Weak. Always sick. That’s not the kind of bloodline I want running anything.”
I remember standing frozen, unable to speak.
I had spent years trying to earn his affection, believing that if I could just improve—be quieter, smarter, more loyal—he would love me again.
I never imagined he would take that love away from our son too.
Milo adored him. Idolized him. He was always trying to show off his drawings, his tiny school trophies, the paper medals he proudly made from foil and childish hope.
But Adrian never looked.
And when Milo grew seriously ill, Adrian didn’t lift a single finger.
He was too busy organizing Noah’s birthday. Decorations. A private magician. A cake flown in from abroad. A brand-new bicycle that probably cost more than the hospital bill I had to beg the nurses to delay.
Milo died without his father beside him.
Only me.
Only quiet.
Only his voice haunting my dreams—
“Daddy? Where are you?”
And the truth I struggle to admit is this—I hate myself.
Because maybe… just maybe… if I had taken him and run, he might still be alive. But I didn’t. And now all I have are dreams, silent rooms, and the hollow ache where his laughter used to live.
Then I heard footsteps outside the bedroom. Unsteady. Drunken. Voices.
I cracked the door open just enough to see Adrian staggering down the hall, leaning heavily into Elise as she supported him.
“Adrian,” she whispered softly, “are you sure you want to go to her room? It’s late… she’s probably still awake.”
He laughed darkly. “Why would I go to her? She treated Noah like trash.”
Elise led him into her room. She didn’t bother closing the door completely. I heard everything—her breathless sounds, his low groans, the creaking mattress. Every sound carved into me.
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t move.
I stared at the wall with my hands folded in my lap, hollow and silent like a ghost.
By morning, I made hangover soup as I always did and set it on the table as if nothing had happened.
Adrian sat down slowly, rubbing his temples. He looked exhausted. Or ashamed.
“I came back really late,” he said without meeting my eyes. “Didn’t want to wake you. I just crashed in Noah’s room.”
I nodded. “Alright.”
I didn’t question him. I didn’t argue. I knew better. His shoulders relaxed—it meant he assumed I was still the same obedient wife, still willing to pretend.
Then, quietly, I slid a single form across the table toward him.
