part 4
The walk down the concrete driveway felt lighter than any step I had taken in six months.
The cold wind bit at my cheeks, but under my wool coat, my heart was beating with a fierce, steady rhythm that I hadn't felt since before the accident. For half a year, I had been carrying a mountain of grief, guilt, and obligation, bending my spine until I couldn't breathe, trying to earn the love of a family that only valued me for what I could extract from my husband's tragedy.
Now, the mountain was gone. They had taken it away themselves by proving, definitively, that they were incapable of loving anything except what my money could buy them.
"Mom?" Wren asked softly as we reached my old sedan parked near the curb. Her breath plumed in the freezing air like little white ghosts. "Are we going home?"
I unlocked the car with a beep, pulling open the passenger door to let her climb into the warmth of the back seat where her booster seat sat.
"Yes, baby," I said, tucking her scarf around her chin. "We're going home. Our real home."
"Did we forget the presents?" she asked, her big brown eyes reflecting the amber streetlights overhead.
"No, sweetie," I smiled, closing her door and walking around to the driver's side. "I put your main present in the trunk this morning. And as for the ones inside..." I paused, looking back at the brightly lit house behind us, where silhouettes of frantic figures were now pacing back and forth past the living room windows. "Let's just say Santa came early, and then he took his gifts back."
Wren giggled—a genuine, musical sound that chased away the last lingering shadows of the dining room table. "Santa is strict this year."
"Very strict," I agreed, sliding behind the steering wheel and turning the ignition.
The engine roared to life, heater immediately blowing warm air against my frozen fingers. I put the car in reverse, checked my mirrors, and backed out of the driveway without looking back once.
As we drove down the suburban street, the quiet neighborhood hummed with holiday cheer. Houses were decked out in glowing reindeer and synchronized light shows, families gathered behind frosted windows, opening presents and sharing laughter. A month ago, seeing all of that would have made my throat tighten with a suffocating ache.
Tonight, it just looked like scenery.
We didn't live far—just twenty minutes away, in a modest three-bedroom craftsman house that Callum and I had bought three years before he died. It wasn't grand like my parents' house, and it didn't have the pretentious neighborhood association fees that forced Beckett to juggle three different credit cards. But every scratch on the hardwood floors had a story. Every coat of paint was chosen together.
When we pulled into our driveway, the house was dark, but the porch light was on, casting a warm, amber glow over the welcome mat.
"We're home!" Wren cheered, unbuckling herself before I even had the car in park.
She scrambled out of the back door and raced up the wooden steps, dropping her backpack on the mat and waiting impatiently for me to unlock the front door.
May you like
Inside, the house smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and the balsam fir candle I had lit before we left for my parents' place. It was quiet, peaceful, and entirely ours. There were no judgmental eyes watching how Wren held her fork. There were no passive-aggressive comments about my weight, my freelance income, or my life choices.
There was just peace.
