The next two days blur into pain and dizziness. Every time I move, the world tilts. But the thought of what’s ahead keeps me going.
On the third day, the doctor unwraps the bandages.
“All right, slowly open your eyes,” he says.
It’s not instant clarity. First, there’s only brightness, then shapes, then the faint outline of a face.
And then… Rowan. His smile is small but genuine. “Welcome back.”
Something shifts inside me.
No more tears for Julian. No more begging to be seen.
That night, I sit at the desk in my hospital room, scribbling in my notebook. Ideas for my revenge take shape in rough sketches and short notes. Rowan knocks on the door.
“Come in,” I say.
He steps inside. “Grandfather’s been asking when you’ll come home.”
My hand stills. Four years. Four years of excuses, all because I thought Julian’s comfort mattered more than my own family.
I swallow. “He’s… okay?”
“He’s waiting. And he’s proud of you, even now.”
Pride. A word I haven’t heard in so long.