Chapter 95

Lila’s POV

Morning came quietly, too quietly.

I woke before the sun fully crept through my curtains. The room was gray, still wrapped in the weight of night, and for a moment, I just sat there, clutching the blanket against my chest. The suitcase waited by the door like a silent witness, packed and ready, its handle upright as though urging me to move.

I swung my legs over the bed and stood slowly. My body felt heavier than usual, not just from exhaustion, but from everything I carried inside. I ran a palm over my stomach, lingering there for a moment. The tiny swell, still barely visible, was the only steady thing I had left.

I moved about the apartment quietly, having my bath, pulling on my clothes, fastening my coat, slipping my documents into my handbag. Every sound felt too loud in the silence, the rasp of the zipper, the squeak of the suitcase wheels as I tested them. I winced and glanced toward the thin walls.

The last thing I wanted was to wake my neighbors. I moved carefully, dragging the suitcase across the floor in slow, controlled motions, holding my breath each time the wheels thudded against the edge of a tile.

By the time I reached the hallway, my heart was already pounding. I locked the door, gave the knob one last twist, then straightened my back. The building was still, filled with the muffled hum of morning, distant pipes groaning, the faint buzz of someone’s radio through the walls. I let out a shaky breath and whispered to myself, You can do this, Lila. Just get to the station.

The stairs groaned under the suitcase wheels as I pulled them down step by step. Each sound echoed in the stairwell, and I froze once, certain a door would open and someone would ask where I was going so early. But the doors stayed shut, and the silence pressed on.

When I pushed through the main entrance, the city greeted me with its cold morning air. A gust swept against my face, sharp enough to sting, and I hunched into my coat. The sky above was streaked in pale blue, the kind of fragile light that comes just before the streets awaken.

I hailed a cab, gave directions to the station, and sank back into the seat.

The ride was short but tense. My eyes darted everywhere, the rearview mirror, the sidewalks, the cars that lingered a little too long behind us. I just wanted to get to the station in one piece without any drama and thankfully I did.

The bus station was already alive when I arrived.

Vendors were out in full force, their voices colliding into a chorus of offers. Everyone was either rushing towards the ticket booth to get their tickets or trying to get the bags from the buses. There was also this sharp smell of petrol and exhaust fumes from the buses that I couldn't ignore, being pregnant meant that your nose could lick up every foul smell.

The chaos should have been overwhelming, but instead, I found it grounding. Here, I was just another traveler. Just another woman clutching her suitcase and trying to get her ticket. No one knew my secrets. No one knew the storm inside me.

I dragged my bag toward the ticket counter. The line moved slowly, filled with impatient sighs and shuffling feet. The man in front of me tapped his foot so hard it thudded against the floor like a drum. I stared down at my shoes, wishing the line would move faster, wishing I could vanish into it.

When it was finally my turn, I slid money across the counter, my hands trembling. The attendant handed me a small slip of paper. My fingers closed around it instantly, gripping it like it was salvation.

Seat 14. Departure in twenty minutes.

I found a bench near the boarding lane and sat heavily. Around me, children ran between tired mothers, men argued over the cost of luggage, and bus drivers shouted destinations at the top of their lungs. It was loud, messy, and alive.

And I clung to that noise like a shield.

When the bus pulled in, its engine groaning, people surged forward in a rush. I followed slowly, clutching my bag tighter, dragging the suitcase up the steps. Inside, the air smelled of dust and fabric softener clinging to the worn seats. I slid into my spot by the window and pressed myself against the glass.

As the bus rolled out of the station, the city blurred behind me, each sight slipped further away, as though I was leaving another version of myself behind.

The ride stretched long, hours marked only by the rhythm of the road and the shifting scenery outside. I watched fields replace buildings, trees replace billboards. The city noise faded into quiet stretches of open land, the roads lined with tall grasses swaying gently in the breeze.

I should have felt calmer. But inside, my thoughts spun endlessly. Drew’s face haunted me, the sharpness of his words, the way his eyes had hardened when he told me he didn’t want me near him. The comparison with Kimberley echoed louder than the bus engine.

But then I pressed my palm to my stomach again, grounding myself. There was still hope. There had to be.

The closer we got to my hometown, the more familiar the world outside became. The cracked road near the outskirts was gone, replaced with smooth tar. The tiny market place by the junction had doubled in size, stalls freshly painted, umbrellas bright against the sky. Even the trees that lined the path seemed greener, fuller, as though time had worked in their favor.

It was different, but it was still home.

When the bus finally pulled into the station, my chest felt tight with anticipation. I dragged my suitcase down the steps, the weight suddenly lighter now. The air was different here, cleaner and softer, carrying the faint scent of earth and wood.

I flagged down a small cab and gave the driver my mother’s shop address. The ride was short, but every second felt stretched. As we passed familiar streets, my heart clenched tighter. The houses had been repainted, new stores stood where empty spaces had once been. Children played along the road, their laughter echoing in the air.

And then we turned the corner.

Her shop stood there. The same little building, painted in faded cream, with bolts of fabric stacked by the window. The sign above it tilted slightly to one side, paint peeling in the corners, but to me it looked perfect.

I paid the driver with trembling hands and pulled my suitcase out. My legs carried me faster than my mind could process. The wheels rattled behind me, then stopped abruptly when I let go.

The bell above the door jingled as I pushed it open.

There she was.

My mother.

Her back was turned, her hands busy arranging items on the counter. Her hair had more silver than I remembered, but her movements were the same, calm, deliberate and steady.

“Mom…” My voice broke before I could stop it.

She turned instantly. Her eyes widened, her lips parted, and the item she was holding slipped from her hands onto the counter. “Lila?”

That was all it took.

The suitcase thudded to the floor as I stumbled forward. My body shook, my legs unsteady, but I didn’t care. I ran straight into her arms.

Her embrace swallowed me whole. She held me so tightly I could barely breathe, her hands pressing against my back, her chin against my hair.

And I broke. Completely.

Sobs ripped out of me, raw and unrelenting. I buried my face in her shoulder, clutching her as if letting go would mean falling apart completely. “Mom,” I gasped, the word breaking over and over. “Mom…”

She rocked me softly, her own voice trembling. “It’s okay, baby. You’re here now. You’re safe. You’re home.”

Safe. Home.

The words washed over me, and for the first time in so long, I believed them.

I cried harder.

She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t demand explanations. She just held me the way only a mother could, steady and unshakable, while I wept like a child who had finally found her way back.

And in that moment, it was enough.