Chapter 96

Lila’s POV

The moment my mother’s arms loosened, she didn’t ask a single question. She only brushed a stray strand of hair from my face and smiled, though her eyes shimmered with the weight of unspoken things.

“Come,” she said gently, her voice pulled me back into the world I thought I had lost. “Let’s go home.”

I swallowed hard and nodded. My gaze drifted over her shop counter. Everything looked exactly the same, yet seeing it now filled me with guilt.

“Mom, your shop” I began, my voice catching.

She waved a hand before I could finish, the corners of her mouth lifting in reassurance. “Forget the shop. You are here now, and that is all that matters. The shop will wait. You won’t.”

Her words sank deep, both comforting and heavy. I hated that she would close for me, hated being the reason she lost even a few hours of business. But the truth was, I needed her more than I could admit aloud. My chest ached with the need to cling to her, to soak in the quiet strength I had missed for so long. So I said nothing more and let her take my hand, leading me outside.

Her car was parked by the curb, the same faded blue sedan she had driven for years. The paint had dulled, and a small crack lined the edge of the windshield, but it stood like a loyal friend that had never left. The sight tugged something inside me. New York was all sleek cars and endless taxis. Here, everything bore the marks of endurance, of use, of a life lived without constant replacement.

She tugged the trunk open, struggling a little as she heaved my suitcase inside. I moved to help, but she swatted me away with a frown. “Not in your condition baby, I can handle this.” she muttered.

That word ‘condition’ hung in the air between us. My chest tightened just by merely hearing it. She hadn’t said the word pregnant or brought it up yet, but we both knew it was a discussion that would eventually come up.

We slid into the car, the leather seats groaning under our weight. The air inside smelled faintly of dust and peppermint, and when she turned the key, the engine sputtered before finally settling into a steady hum. I exhaled slowly, the sound almost blending with the engine.

As she steered us out onto the road, she tapped her phone, propping it into the dashboard holder. With a press of a button, my father’s voice filled the car.

“Hey love, I was just about to unload some supplies and start coming to the shop,” he said. His tone was brisk and distracted, until she interrupted him.

“We won’t be opening today,” she said softly, glancing at me with a smile. “Lila came home.”

There was a pause, then his voice warmed instantly, cracking with something that sounded suspiciously like joy. “Wait, you mean she's home now? Thank God! I will hurry back. Just… just tell her I can’t wait to see her.”

Tears pricked at the back of my eyes, and I turned toward the window, hiding my trembling mouth. I had braced myself for disappointment, for questions, maybe even quiet judgment. But all I had heard in his voice was excitement and relief.

The line ended, and silence filled the car once more. I leaned my forehead against the cool glass, watching as the town unfolded before me.

The streets looked familiar yet different. Some of the potholes I remembered had been patched. The bakery where I used to buy sweet rolls now had a shiny new sign. Kids ran barefoot across the sidewalks, their laughter ringing through the air like bells. Time had moved on, reshaping the edges of my memories, but the bones of this place remained unchanged.

When we pulled into our driveway, the sight of the house knocked the breath out of me. The paint was already peeling, the garden looked like they needed trimming, weeds pushed through the cracks of the stone path, yet it still stood strong and unyielding. The front porch light, even in daylight, was on, like it had been waiting all along.

I froze at the gate, my suitcase wheels rattling against the gravel. Memories rushed in all at once. The summers spent on that porch, rainy nights where we listened to the thunder while my father told me stories by the fireplace and the way Mom’s laughter once spilled out of those windows. I was happy here. This has always been my happy place

“Everything is still the same, isn’t it?” Mom said softly, watching me with knowing eyes.

I nodded, though my throat was too tight to form words.

Inside, the house smelled like citrus and freshly baked bread, and beneath it all, that faint woody scent I had always associated with home. The air was warmer here and thicker, like it carried layers of history with every breath.

Mom led me straight to my old room. When she pushed the door open, my chest tightened again. The posters that had once covered the walls were gone, leaving faint outlines where tape had held them in place. The curtains were different too, faded floral patterns now instead of the bright pink I once insisted on but the bed remained, the same wooden frame, neatly made with clean sheets.

“Your room has been waiting for you,” she murmured, setting my suitcase down gently by the bed.

Without hesitation, she began unpacking my suitcase, folding my clothes into the wardrobe, lining my shoes by the corner. She moved briskly, almost deliberately, as though keeping busy was her way of holding back the questions she wasn’t ready to ask.

I stood in the doorway, guilt curling in my stomach. “Mom, you don’t have to…”

She cut me off with a glance. “Hush. Let me.”

So I did. I let her fuss over me, let her settle me in as though I were a child again. And though I said nothing, my chest swelled with quiet gratitude.

“Go freshen up,” she said when she was done, dusting her hands. “I will make you something warm to eat.”

I slipped into the small bathroom across the hall. The tiles were chipped, the mirror slightly foggy at the corners, but it felt like stepping into a sanctuary. I turned on the water, letting it run over me, washing away the city’s dirt and the invisible weight I had carried all the way here. For the first time in weeks, I allowed my shoulders to drop.

By the time I returned, the smell of cooking floated faintly from the kitchen, warm and inviting. My body, however, betrayed me. I meant only to sit for a moment, but the bed’s softness pulled me down. My eyes grew heavy, and before I could resist, exhaustion dragged me under.

When I woke up again, the room was filled with the smell of rich spices and roasted meat. Voices drifted through the walls; low, comforting, and familiar. One of them was my father’s.

I sat up quickly, my heart hammering. For a second, I felt like a child again, waking from a nap to the comfort of knowing my parents were home.

Padding softly into the living room, I froze at the doorway.

My father stood there, broader than I remembered, his hair grayer at the temples, but his eyes, those steady and kind eyes were exactly the same. The moment he saw me, his face lit up. He crossed the room in three long strides and pulled me into his arms.

“Lila,” he said, his voice thick. His embrace was firm, grounding, smelling faintly of soap and wood.

I pressed my face into his chest, blinking hard against the tears.

“Come, sit,” he urged, pulling back slightly but keeping an arm around me. “We have been waiting for you.”

The dining table was set with steaming dishes, rice, stew, vegetables glistening in oil, and bread stacked in a basket. The sight alone made my stomach clench with hunger, though guilt crept in again at how much effort they had gone through.

We ate together, the clinking of cutlery filling the silence. Every time my plate grew lighter, my mother added more with a quiet insistence, her eyes sharp in a way that brooked no refusal.

“Eat some more, my baby,” she said softly.

The words carried more weight than they seemed, and I caught her glance at my stomach. I dropped my gaze, my throat tightening.

Neither of them asked me anything outright, but their concern bled through in the smallest gestures, the way my father poured me water before serving himself, the way my mother pushed the softest parts of the bread toward me. Their love was quiet, but it pressed around me like a warm blanket.

When the plates were cleared, Mom disappeared into the kitchen and returned with three steaming mugs of hot chocolate. She set them down carefully before the fireplace, where the flames crackled and popped, filling the room with golden light.

I sank into the couch, curling my hands around the warm mug. The fire’s glow danced across the walls, illuminating the room in the cracks and corners.

For a long while, none of us spoke. We only sipped and listened to the fire.

Finally, I cleared my throat, the words trembling on my lips. “I know you are both wondering what happened,” I said quietly, staring into the flames. “Why I just showed up here without warning.”

The fire popped loudly, sending sparks upward.

I looked up and found both their eyes fixed on me, waiting, patient, but heavy with concern.