The House That Was Never Home
804 Words
Serena’s POV
The manor was too large for comfort.
Even when filled with staff, family, and visitors coming in and out since Eleanor’s passing, it still felt cavernous. Every hallway stretched endlessly, each room heavy with the weight of silence. The ceilings were too high, the walls too pristine, and no matter how warm the fireplace burned, it always felt cold.
It wasn’t my home.
And yet, I was still here.
It had been three days since the funeral, and I was still living in Damien’s house, a guest in a place that felt more like a museum than a home. Not because I wanted to, but because I had no choice.
Lucas and Lucy refused to let anyone else near them.
The nannies tried. The nurses hired to care for them tried. Even their grandparents—my parents and Damien’s—tried. But the moment they were passed into another’s arms, the twins would break into heart-wrenching sobs, their tiny bodies trembling as they wailed in distress.
It didn’t matter that they had been fed. It didn’t matter that their diapers were clean or that they were rocked the same way Eleanor used to soothe them.
They only calmed when I held them. Or Damien.
And that was a problem.
“They’ve grown too attached,” my mother whispered, her voice laced with worry as she sat stiffly on one of the manor’s expensive couches.
“They just lost their mother,” Damien’s father replied, sipping his whiskey with a sharp gaze directed toward the nursery door. “Of course, they’re attached to the only people who’ve consistently held them since then.”
“They need to learn,” Damien’s mother said, frowning. “They can’t depend on just two people forever.”
I listened to their hushed conversation from my place in the nursery, the door left slightly ajar. They had been speaking about me—about us—constantly since the funeral.
It was clear they were uneasy about the situation.
I couldn’t blame them.
The longer I stayed, the more complicated things became.
It wasn’t just that the twins needed me; it was the way Damien and I were now orbiting the same space. The way our lives were colliding in ways they never had before.
And no one knew what to do about it.
I shifted my gaze back to the babies in my arms.
Lucas and Lucy had finally fallen asleep against me, their tiny bodies warm and relaxed, their faces peaceful in a way that made my heart ache.
They had been crying for hours.
The nannies had tried to take them from me earlier, but Lucy had screamed until her voice was hoarse, her small fists gripping my shirt like she was afraid I would disappear too.
I hadn’t been able to hand them over after that.
I sighed, shifting slightly to ease the ache in my arms, exhaustion pulling at me.
Three days.
Three days of little sleep, of constantly holding them, of trying to navigate the strange, unspoken tension between me and Damien.
I didn’t know how long I could keep doing this.
A presence in the doorway made me look up.
Damien stood there, leaning against the frame, his gaze locked on the twins.
Even disheveled, he still looked effortlessly put together. His white dress shirt had the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his tie discarded, the top few buttons undone. His dark hair was slightly tousled, and there were faint shadows under his eyes—proof that I wasn’t the only one struggling with the sleepless nights.
He didn’t say anything at first, just observed me as I cradled his children, his expression unreadable.
“You need to rest,” he finally said.
I let out a short laugh, barely above a whisper. “You think I don’t know that?”
His jaw tensed. “Then stop doing this alone. Let someone else take them.”
I looked down at the twins and shook my head. “They won’t let me.”
“They won’t let me either,” Damien muttered, stepping fully into the room.
I hadn’t realized how close he had gotten until the space between us disappeared.
For a moment, I thought he was going to take one of the twins from me. But instead, he reached past me, adjusting the blanket draped over Lucy’s tiny body, his fingers brushing against mine.
His touch was fleeting, but it sent something strange through me.
A moment passed.
Then another.
Neither of us spoke.
The house was silent save for the soft breathing of the twins and the distant murmurs of our families outside.
I should have said something. Should have broken the tension.
But I didn’t.
Because, for the first time since Eleanor’s death, the silence wasn’t so unbearable.
- Writer
