Five Years, Then Goodbye

Chapter 3

ELENA

“Is this really you?”

My father’s voice comes through the phone, rougher than I remember.

I close my eyes for a moment, holding the phone tighter against my ear. There was a time when hearing that voice would have made me feel safe without even trying. Now, it only reminds me of how long it has been since I last let myself come home.

“Yes, Father,” I whisper. “It’s really me.”

There is silence on the other end.

Not an awkward one. More like he is trying to make sure he isn't imagining this conversation.

Then he asks quietly, “Are you all right?”

I look around the bedroom.

At the bed where Adrian's phone had been only minutes ago. At the empty space beside me where his things usually are. At the wedding photograph sitting on the dresser, showing a younger version of me smiling beside the man I had thought I would spend the rest of my life with.

“No,” I admit.

My voice almost breaks, but I force myself to continue.

“I’m ready to come home.”

Another pause follows, shorter this time.

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll come for you. What time?”

“Seven.”

“Okay. Be ready.”

“I will.”

The call ends.

I sit there for another moment, staring at the dark screen, then I put the phone down and stand.

I don't know what time it is anymore, and I don't care.

I walk to the closet and pull out one of my suitcases.

For years, this room has been filled with things I bought because Adrian liked them, things I kept because they reminded me of moments that no longer mean anything, and clothes I stopped wearing because I thought they were too expensive or too attention-grabbing for the wife of Adrian Vale.

Tonight, I don't think about any of that.

I simply pack.

I take my clothes, shoes, toiletries, jewelry and the few personal things I know I won't want to leave behind. I gather photographs from before my marriage and place them carefully between two sweaters so they won't bend. I pack Noah's favorite things separately, making sure I don't forget his little stuffed bear that he refuses to sleep without.

Every now and then, my hands stop moving. Not because I have changed my mind, but because I am realizing just how much of my life is inside this house.

Five years.

Five years of waking up here.

Five years of eating at that dining table.

Five years of waiting for someone who never intended to come.

I zip the first suitcase shut and move on to the next. By the time I finish, the room looks strangely empty.

I sit at the desk and take out a sheet of paper. For a long time, I simply stare at it. Then I begin writing.

I write everything I cannot bring myself to say to Adrian's face. I write about the five years, about the things I tolerated, about the woman I became while trying to make our marriage work. I write about Noah and how much I love him. I write about how tired I am of waiting.

Most importantly, I write what I have decided to do.

When I'm finished, I fold the letter carefully and place it on the nightstand.

I don't reread it.

I don't need to.

It is my final goodbye.

I turn off the lights and lie down.

Sleep doesn't come easily, but eventually exhaustion wins.

*****

My alarm rings at exactly six the next morning.

I reach out and silence it.

For a few seconds, I lie there staring at the ceiling, then I turn my head.

Adrian's side of the bed is empty. He never came home.

Once, that would have hurt. This morning, I feel nothing. I'm leaving, and that is all that matters.

I get dressed quickly and leave the bedroom, carrying one of the smaller bags with me.

The house is quiet.

Too quiet.

I walk down the hallway and stop outside Noah's room.

When I open the door, he is still asleep, curled beneath his blanket.

I walk over and gently touch his shoulder.

“Noah.”

He stirs.

“Noah, wake up.”

His eyes slowly open. “Mommy?”

“Yes. Come on, baby. We need to get ready.”

He pushes himself up, rubbing his eyes. “Ready for what?”

“We're leaving.”

He blinks at me. “Where?”

“Home.”

He looks confused. “This is home.”

The words hit me harder than they should.

I sit beside him and smooth his messy hair. “We're going to Grandpa's house.”

His sleepy expression disappears. “Why?”

I hesitate. “Because I want us to go home.”

He looks at me for a few seconds before asking the question that breaks something inside me.

“What about Dad?”

I force myself to smile. “He'll be fine.”

Noah's brows pull together. “What about Aunt Vivian?”

My heart stops for half a second.

He isn't asking because he is worried about leaving his father.

He is worried about leaving Vivian.

I look away before he can see the hurt on my face.

“We're still leaving.”

“But Aunt Vivian said—”

“Noah.”

My voice comes out firmer than I intended.

He goes quiet.

I immediately soften. “I'm sorry, sweetheart. I just need you to trust me, okay?”

He stares at me for a moment before slowly nodding. “Okay.”

I help him out of bed and get him dressed.

He asks several more questions while I pack his things, but I answer only the ones I can.

He wants to know how long we'll be gone.

He wants to know if Dad is coming.

He wants to know whether he can take his toys.

I tell him to take whatever he wants.

When we are finally ready, I carry his smaller bag downstairs while he walks behind me with his stuffed bear tucked beneath one arm.

We reach the foyer just as a car horn sounds outside.

I stop.

My father is here.

I hurry back upstairs one last time.

My suitcase is waiting beside the bedroom door. I pick it up, then glance toward the nightstand.

The letter is still there.

For a second, I consider walking back to it, but I don't.

I already said everything I needed to say.

I pick up my bag and walk out.

This is the final goodbye.

When I step outside, the morning air feels different against my skin.

Three black cars are waiting in the driveway.

My father's security team stands beside them, but I barely notice anyone except the man standing beside the first car.

My father.

He looks older than he did five years ago.

His hair has more gray in it, and there are deeper lines around his eyes, but the moment he sees me, his entire face changes.

His expression softens.

My face does too.

For the first time in a long time, I feel something other than heartbreak.

I feel relief.

“Dad.”

I walk quickly toward him.

He opens his arms, and I fall into them.

His arms close tightly around me.

He doesn't ask what happened. He doesn't tell me he warned me. He simply holds me.

“You're home,” he murmurs against my hair.

I close my eyes. “Yes.”

He pulls back and looks at me properly. “Are you ready?”

I nod. “I am.”

His gaze moves toward Noah, who is standing a few feet away with his little bag and stuffed bear.

My father walks over and crouches in front of him. “Come here, young man.”

Noah looks at me first.

I give him a small nod.

He walks over.

My father takes his hand, then he looks back at me.

“Let's go home.”

For the first time in five years, I don't look back at the house.

I simply take a breath, walk toward the car, and get inside with my son.

My father follows.

The door closes.

A few seconds later, the car pulls away from the house that had been my home for five years.

I watch it disappear through the rear window.

And I don't feel the urge to turn back.