Chapter 3: Old Scars
1196 Words
The room was quiet after Ethan spoke.
"I promised your grandmother I'd finish this house."
I looked at him, then at the folder lying on the table. My grandmother's handwriting stared back at me. Every page carried little notes in the neat, careful writing I had known all my life.
"Keep the kitchen bright."
"The front porch should always feel welcoming."
"Ivy loves natural light."
My chest tightened.
She had planned this long before she got sick.
Long before I came home.
I reached for the folder, closing it before I could read another word.
"I'll think about it."
It wasn't a yes.
It wasn't a no.
It was the best I could give.
Maggie smiled softly.
"That's all anyone is asking."
Ethan gave a small nod.
"I'll leave you to settle in."
He turned toward the door.
For some reason, watching him walk away felt strangely familiar.
Ten years ago, I had watched him leave too.
Back then, I had begged him to stay.
Today, I said nothing.
The front door closed behind him.
I let out a long breath.
"I still don't understand why Grandma trusted him," I whispered.
Maggie walked over and squeezed my shoulder.
"Because she knew his heart."
I looked up.
"You still think he's a good man?"
"I do."
"He left me."
"I know."
"He broke our engagement without even telling me why."
"I know."
"So how can you defend him?"
Maggie sighed.
"I'm not defending what happened. I'm only saying people sometimes carry burdens they never talk about."
I shook my head.
"I don't want to hear excuses."
"They're not excuses."
"I spent ten years trying to forget him."
"And did you?"
The question caught me off guard.
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
Maggie smiled sadly.
"I'll let you unpack."
She kissed my forehead before leaving.
The house felt even quieter after she was gone.
I walked slowly through the hallway.
Every room carried memories.
The dining room where Grandma insisted every birthday be celebrated.
The living room where Ethan and I had spent Christmas Eve wrapping gifts for children at the community center.
The kitchen where he had once tried to bake me a birthday cake and nearly set the oven on fire.
A laugh escaped before I could stop it.
I covered my mouth.
Why am I smiling?
That wasn't why I came back.
I came to renovate the house.
Sell it.
Leave.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
I carried my suitcase upstairs.
My old bedroom looked almost untouched.
The same bookshelf stood against the wall.
The same white curtains hung beside the window.
Even the little crack near the closet door was still there.
Grandma had really left everything waiting for me.
I unpacked slowly.
Hours passed before I realized I hadn't eaten anything.
As I headed downstairs, loud voices drifted in through the open window.
I stepped onto the porch.
Ethan was outside with his crew.
He wasn't giving orders from a distance.
He was carrying heavy wood with everyone else.
One of the younger workers dropped a box of tiles.
"I'm sorry, boss."
"It happens," Ethan replied.
"No one's hurt. Let's clean it up."
There was no shouting.
No insults.
The men laughed as they picked everything up.
One of them made a joke about buying stronger boots.
Even Ethan laughed.
It was a deep, easy laugh.
Once I hadn't heard in years.
Without thinking, I kept watching.
He noticed.
Our eyes met.
Neither of us looked away.
Finally, he walked toward the porch.
"I hope we weren't too loud."
"You weren't."
"I can move today's work to the back of the house."
"You don't have to."
He stopped a few steps away.
"I meant what I said yesterday."
"I know."
"I'll respect whatever decision you make."
I folded my arms.
"You sound very sure I'll keep you."
"I'm not."
"Then why are you acting so calm?"
He smiled faintly.
"Because arguing with you has never ended well for me."
I almost smiled.
Almost.
"I've changed."
"I can see that."
"Can you?"
"You stand a little straighter now."
I frowned.
"What does that mean?"
"You used to hide behind your hair whenever you were nervous."
My hand immediately moved toward my shoulder-length hair.
He noticed.
"So you still do it."
I quickly lowered my hand.
"I don't."
His smile grew.
For a second, I forgot why I was angry.
Then the memory came rushing back.
The broken engagement.
The unanswered questions.
The nights I cried myself to sleep.
The life we were supposed to have.
"I should go inside."
"Ivy."
I stopped.
"You don't have to be afraid of remembering."
I turned back.
"I'm not afraid."
"You've been avoiding this town for ten years."
"I had a life somewhere else."
"I know."
"You don't know anything."
His smile disappeared.
"No," he admitted quietly.
"I don't."
The silence between us grew heavy.
A worker called his name from the driveway.
"Ethan, we need you."
He nodded.
"I'm coming."
Before walking away, he looked at the house.
"It still feels like home."
I followed his gaze.
"It doesn't feel that way to me."
"Maybe one day it will again."
I didn't answer.
He walked back to his crew.
I stayed on the porch until they disappeared behind the house.
Later that afternoon, I decided to inspect the rest of the renovation plans.
The back bedroom had already been measured.
The roof had small leaks marked with blue tape.
The old windows were scheduled for repair, not replacement.
Grandma's notes were everywhere.
"Keep the old oak floors."
"Don't remove the fireplace."
"The house should still feel like home."
Every decision was thoughtful.
Nothing felt rushed.
I hated admitting it, but Ethan had listened to every one of her wishes.
As I stepped into the hallway, I heard two workers talking outside the open window.
"You know," one of them said, "I've never seen a boss take a job this personally."
"Neither have I."
"He visited Mrs. Lawson almost every week."
"I heard she treated him like family."
"She always believed Miss Ivy would come back."
I stood perfectly still.
Family.
Had Ethan really stayed close to Grandma after I left?
Why?
He had every reason to stay away.
He was the one who ended everything.
Wasn't he?
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the porch.
A gentle knock followed.
I opened the door.
Ethan stood there holding a small wooden box.
"I found this in the attic," he said.
"It has your name on it."
I looked down.
My grandmother's handwriting covered the lid.
For Ivy.
Before I could reach for it, Ethan's phone rang.
He answered immediately.
His face lost all color.
"What?"
He listened for several seconds.
"I'll be there."
He ended the call and looked at me with an expression I couldn't read.
"I'm sorry."
"What happened?"
He hesitated.
Then he spoke quietly.
"It can wait."
He turned to leave.
I watched him walk down the porch steps, the unanswered question sitting heavily in my chest.
Something was wrong.
And somehow, I knew it had everything to do with the past. We were both trying so hard to forget.
- Writer
