Chapter 3
I always thought Justin's kindness and considerateness were just a brother caring for his sister. I thought he was just trying to help me fit in with his family.
Turns out I was just fooling myself all along.
"I'll drive you home," Justin finally said after a long silence.
He reached for my hand and led me to the car.
"I messed up earlier," he admitted quietly.
As the car engine rumbled to life, I heard his soft voice through the noise.
I rolled down the window, pretending I hadn't heard him.
I let the wind tangle my hair and blur my eyes, tears slipping down before I even realized.
As we pulled up to our house, I took a deep breath, forced a smile, and got out of the car.
Before I even opened the door, I could hear Dylan Justin's loud voice inside.
As soon as we stepped inside, he rushed straight into Justin's arms.
"Dad, you're finally back!" Dylan shouted, his voice bursting with excitement.
"Mom wouldn't let me go see Aunt Bridget. She made me stay home. I wanted to go to the amusement park," he complained, frustration clear in his tone.
I just stood there. Stunned.
I couldn't believe my own son would say something so cruel without a second thought.
Justin looked surprised for a second, then instinctively glanced over at me.
"Mom was just worried you'd get tired from the long drive. How about Mom and I take you to the amusement park today?" he explained gently, trying to smooth things over.
He reached out and gently patted Justin's head.
"I don't want Mom to come," Dylan pouted, turning his head away in a huff.
Looking at his little profile, I lowered my head, my eyes stinging with sadness.
Most days, I was just scrambling between work and home, but in the end, I failed at both. My own son barely wanted me around, and my husband didn't care about me either.
"How about I make your favorite chicken pot pie tonight, sweetheart?" I asked, softening my voice and trying to sound upbeat.
I crouched down and gently took his little hand in mine.
Finally, Dylan turned to look at me, his big eyes blinking as he nodded.
"Then I'll eat a lot tonight," he said.
That warmed my heart a little.
Later, as the sun climbed higher and filled the room with light, I found myself, almost against my will, opening that old phone once more.
[The world says I can't love you, but my heart only wants you.] I read the message aloud.
It was saved in the drafts folder. Unsent. It held all the feelings Justin had in his youth.
"What about me, then?" I whispered, my voice shaky. I was barely holding it together.
Even then, some tiny part of me still hoped.
He was just 18 when he wrote that. People change. He settled down. Started a family. That had to mean something.
If he really didn't care about me, he wouldn't have had a kid with me, right?
Another message read: [I don't love her, so I had a child with her, hoping the kid would love her for me.]
My breath caught. The warm sunlight suddenly felt freezing cold.
My vision blurred, and my breathing became heavy without me even realizing it.
So this was why he was so eager to have a child with me.
I thought he wanted a child as proof of our love.
Proof that we were real. Proof that he loved me.
But now I understood. The truth hit me all at once, cruel and clear.
If I'd found this out at 18, I would've walked away without looking back.
But now, I had an adorable son and a picture-perfect family that everyone envied—at least from the outside.
I clenched my fists, barely able to steady my shaky steps as I made my way back to my room.
Staring up at the ceiling, I didn't even notice the tears falling until my cheeks were wet.
"Don't you just hate yourself for being such a coward, Andrea?" I muttered, a bitter laugh slipping out.
I couldn't help but scoff at myself, my mind racing with all kinds of thoughts before I finally drifted into a restless sleep.
In my dreams, I saw that radiant Justin I first met.
He waved at me, then, like a magician, pulled a bouquet of roses from behind his back, shyly handing them over, his eyes only for me.
But when I woke up, I found myself in a pitch-black room, fumbling for the light.
Crap.
I hadn't even started making Dylan's favorite chicken pot pie.
I rushed downstairs, expecting to find Dylan sulking, but the downstairs was quiet.
My steps slowed, and my gaze lost focus for a second.
It was already nine. Still not home?