Glad to see you again...

Chapter 6

I finally sigh with relief when I reach my comfy 2 storey home. I ripped out the old flooring and replaced it with dark wood—something warm and smooth beneath my feet, perfect for walking around barefoot. Growing up in an Asian household, wearing shoes indoors was practically a crime. Some habits never leave you.

I drop my keys on the table by the stairs and shrug off my coat, hanging it neatly on the hook. The air had a chill to it—October is just around the corner, and the wind is already starting to bite.

The moment I step inside, I’m welcomed by the familiar comfort of my living room. My plush grey Pottery Barn couch sits facing the large window beside the front door, perfectly positioned for lazy evenings. The TV is mounted neatly above the white fireplace, creating a cozy focal point. But my favorite part of the room is the oversized window—complete with a built-in nook, cushioned seating, and shelves lined with my beloved Chick Lit novels. It’s my Saturday morning sanctuary, where the world could wait while I lost myself in a good book.

The living room flows seamlessly into a small dining area, which opens up into my kitchen. I love the open-concept design—it makes the space feel warm, connected, alive. It’s one of the things I cherished most about coming home.

I walk up the carpeted stairs toward my room, passing the exposed brick wall I’d purposely left untouched when I first bought the place—it adds just the right amount of character. Upstairs, there were two rooms. One was my bedroom—modest in size, but perfect for someone like me. It was my little haven, lined with bookshelves overflowing with all my favorite reads.

The other room upstairs serves as a guest room, mainly for when my dad visits. Not wanting it to go to waste in between visits, I turned it into a part-time home office. Built-in bookshelves lined the walls, but instead of novels, they are filled with law books, case files, and legal documents—my professional life neatly packed away.

Just down the hall from both rooms was the upstairs bathroom, one of only two in the house. The second is tucked behind the dining room downstairs. I hop into a quick shower—there’s a hearing tomorrow, and I want to be sharp and ready.

After drying off, I pull on my fluffiest pink pajamas and slide my feet into matching puffy slippers. Rather than settling into the office to study, I decide to head downstairs and curl up in the living room instead.

I brew a quick pot of peppermint tea in the kitchen, letting the soothing scent drift through the house as I take a deep, calming breath. After the day I’d had, I need a moment of peace—just me and the quiet hum of normalcy.

Once the tea is ready, I sink into the couch and turn on my Bluetooth speaker, filling the space with gentle classical music to keep the loneliness at bay. But thirty minutes in, my focus starts to slip. No matter how hard I try, my thoughts keep circling back to him—that arrogant, smug new lawyer at the firm. Ugh. Come on, brain, not now. This is not the time.

I have a partnership to win (whenever it’s going to be formally announced), and the last thing I need is some cocky distraction—especially one who seems to rise straight out of hell just to sabotage my shot at the top.

Desperate to refocus, I relocate to the other couch, the one facing the TV, hoping a change of scenery will help. It doesn't. Still distracted. I have no idea why I even bothered.

I glance at the photo from my high school graduation—just me and my dad, standing side by side, trying to smile. There’s an empty space where my mom should’ve been, and that space still echoes. She didn’t come. She couldn’t even pretend to care.

It should’ve been a proud moment. I had fought tooth and nail to get there. But all I could think about was that empty chair beside my father, like a void screaming louder than applause ever could.

My thoughts drift back to high school, back to the battlefield that was my teenage life. Wesley and I were locked in a war that everyone watched. We weren’t just competitors—we were two storms constantly colliding. Debates, Model UN, advanced classes—we shared them all. And in every room, on every team, we were always on opposite sides, always trying to outdo each other. Trading insults had become second nature. It wasn’t just academic—we tore into each other like it was survival. Looks, brains, weaknesses—nothing was off-limits. And as much as I hated to admit it, he was the only person who ever truly challenged me. The only one who could beat me.

And when he did, I’d feel my chest tighten before I even walked through the door at home. Because I already knew what was waiting for me. My mother’s voice, sharp and cold: “Did you get first?” If the answer was no, she barely needed to say anything else. Second place was failure in her eyes. Worse than failure—it was shame.

When we were both named co-valedictorians, I could almost hear her disapproval ringing in my ears. It didn’t matter that I was still top of the class. I wasn’t the top. I had to share the stage with Wesley. That ruined it for her. She didn’t even bother showing up to hear my speech.

My dad did. Of course, he did. And I tried to focus on that—on how proud he looked, how tightly he held my hand. But when I glanced at the seat next to him, the one my mom should’ve filled, the ache in my chest cracked something deep inside me. I smiled for the cameras, but I was breaking.

I know, now, that it wasn’t entirely fair to blame Wesley for the distance between me and my mom. But a part of me always did. Because if he hadn’t been there—if he hadn’t matched me stride for stride—maybe I would’ve been enough for her. Maybe I wouldn’t have been met with that quiet disappointment in her eyes. That heavy silence. That unspoken judgment.

She died while I was in law school. There were no final words. No reconciliation. Just an abrupt, irreversible end. And all the things we never said to each other still live inside me, rattling around like ghosts I can’t lay to rest.

Now, it’s just me and my dad. The one person who’s never stopped showing up.

That guilt I carry—it’s heavy. It clings to me in quiet moments. It’s why I push so hard, why this partnership isn’t just about ambition—it’s about redemption. I want, need, to prove something to her. Even if she’s no longer here to see it. Even if it’s too late.

Things between us had thawed—barely—when I got into Harvard. There was a flicker of pride, but the damage had already been done. Through law school, we only spoke occasionally—brief, distant calls every couple of months. No real warmth. No healing. Just... obligation.

My dad, on the other hand, called all the time. He worried if I was eating, if I was sleeping. Even while managing his Malaysian restaurant back home, he somehow made time to be there for me. He once joked that if the food at Harvard got bad enough, he’d hop on a train with a Tupperware full of nasi lemak just to make sure I ate something real.

And knowing him, I think he would’ve done it without hesitation.

An hour later, I’m still distracted. Arrgh, f**k it. I’m going to bed.