Chapter 2 A Home That Wasn't Mine

My phone vibrated. It was a message from my mom.

'Elliot, congratulations on your wedding. I'm so happy for you!'

I typed out a long reply. I apologized for embarrassing them. I said I was looking forward to seeing them more than anything. But in the end, I deleted it all, word by word, and only sent, 'The wedding's canceled. Don't worry about me.'

A long while passed before she replied. 'Your dad's been worrying all this time, afraid you'd marry under pressure. Now that it's canceled, maybe that's for the best.'

I stared at the contact I saved as "Mom" on the screen, a lump forming in my throat.

'Mom, I want to come home.'

The moment the message was sent, I looked up.

Lydia was playing a bouquet-catching game with Mason. The two of them were laughing together, bright and carefree.

It was so bright that it hurt.

From beginning to end, no one cared how I, the would-be groom, felt.

I stood there quietly for a moment. Then, I turned and left.

…

Back in that shabby yet familiar apartment, I pulled out my suitcase and began packing. I had been staying here for years. Everything was already neatly arranged, so packing took almost no effort.

A sharp, stabbing pain twisted through my stomach in waves. I swallowed a painkiller and collapsed onto the bed, falling into a heavy sleep.

A little after four in the afternoon, Lydia came back.

Not long after, the sound of a spatula hitting a pan came from the kitchen.

I froze.

Lydia was cooking.

In the past five years, she had hardly ever cooked for me.

As the familiar scent drifted over, memories I had not touched in a long time surfaced on their own.

…

Back then, I had been working and studying at the same time. Then, my stomach problems caught up with me, and eventually, I was diagnosed with early-stage cancer.

Even the hospital had thought the odds were slim. I had given up on myself.

Lydia and I had only been together for half a month when she rushed back overnight from another city.

She emptied all her savings, crouched by my bedside, and comforted me again and again. "If you already think there's no hope, then let me take over and gamble once. If we win, you gain everything. If we lose, you haven't lost anything."

The doctor beside her had sighed, warning that the treatment costs would be enormous and that the chances were high we would lose everything.

She turned back, her eyes burning bright. "I'll earn it."

After that, she worked everywhere—part-time jobs, drinking with clients to secure sponsorships, grinding through the early days of building a business. Life bent her spine until it creaked under the weight, but she never once missed making me a light, carefully prepared meal every single day. Day after day, without fail.

Maybe I was lucky. In the end, I made it through.

The day I was discharged, the girl who had always been so strong hugged me tightly, her eyes red. "You have me for the rest of your life. I'll make sure you live well."

…

But after Mason appeared, everything changed. Her conversations with me shifted, from our daily life to Mason.

At first, she would complain, "Why is he so annoying? His IQ is about the same as yours, but he's far less steady than you are."

She would sigh with regret too. "If you hadn't fallen sick and taken time off back then, you'd definitely be more outstanding than him."

But slowly, Mason became the only topic she had left.

I stood at the kitchen doorway. "Add some spice."

Her cooking had always followed strict rules—light, healthy, bland. She never seemed to consider that I had already recovered and could handle stronger flavors now.

Without even looking up, she said, "Mason's coming over for dinner tonight. He can't eat spicy food."

I gave a quiet hum and turned back to the bedroom.

The memory of our last anniversary suddenly hit me.

I had picked the restaurant myself, a rare time for just the two of us. What I got instead was her showing up with Mason. With that, the venue changed into a fast-food place next to an amusement park.

I had left with a cold expression, trying to protest this three-person arrangement. But reality taught me quickly how useless that was.

She checked in with the media, and so, I became the narrow-minded, jealous husband who could not tolerate an old friend.

It was not that she cared whether I humiliated her. She simply wanted me to accept reality.

"Elliot." She had been patient, like she was instructing a child. "Until Mason recovers mentally, you need to get used to his presence. You can dislike him, ignore him even, but you can't drive him away. Understand?"

After that, she used one incident after another to make sure I learned my lesson.

This small apartment became my refuge.

Eventually, she even brought Mason into our home.

That was when I grew quieter and quieter.

Whenever I was alone with him, he would grin as he played with his toys, muttering to himself. Every night when I closed my eyes, all I saw was Mason's smug face. "Your parents don't want you. Even Lydia doesn't want you anymore."

I knew he was faking his condition, but there was nothing I could do about it.

I became more irritable. Lydia grew more and more impatient with me. Mason, meanwhile, grew bolder, often leaning against the doorway, looking at me with satisfaction. "See? I told you. Lydia cares about me more."

The doorbell rang. Mason had arrived.

From the living room came the clatter of dishes, his bright laughter, and Lydia's lowered voice—soft, patient.

And that whole time, no one called me out for dinner.

I let out a quiet breath, pressing down the bitterness in my chest. Then, I pulled the suitcase out from under the bed and continued packing.