Chapter 5: Homecoming

"Sign it!" My legs were numb; I didn’t want to hear his explanations.

I gripped the porch railing for support, steeling myself against the tremor in my knees. My patience had run out.

"Natalie, don’t be stubborn."

He tried to sound gentle, but I heard the edge of desperation underneath. For once, I didn’t care.

"Your body can’t take this torment. It was my fault this time. Don’t worry, I’ll find a way to cure you."

He looked at me as if medicine could still fix everything broken between us. But some wounds don’t respond to treatment.

Graham sighed, guilt in his eyes. He was apologizing, but I didn’t want his apology.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration and sorrow etched deep in his features. The words hung heavy in the humid night air.

"Graham." My tone was icy. He stared at me, suddenly looking a little afraid.

He flinched as if I’d struck him. There was real fear there now—fear of losing control, of losing me for good.

"Natalie, let me check your pulse, okay?" He reached for my wrist, but I stepped back, my face even paler.

His hands hovered, uncertain, as if touching me would burn him. I kept my arms folded tightly across my chest.

His expression shifted, and he tried to embrace me, but a gentle female voice called from behind him: "Graham, it hurts so much."

The voice was as soft as velvet, but sharp as a knife. I didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

With just that one line, Graham immediately turned and rushed into the house.

He forgot me—again—in the space of a single heartbeat.

"Where does it hurt? I’ll reapply the medicine for you." He supported her, his eyes full of worry and anxiety.

I watched him fuss over her, every gesture tender and practiced. It was a scene straight out of the novels I’d once scoffed at.

I looked up and met her gaze.

She met my eyes with a quiet triumph, a smirk barely hidden at the corners of her lips. There was no kindness in her face, only the certainty of a woman who always wins.

Her features were soft yet sharp—the very image of a romance novel’s heroine.

She had the kind of looks people write songs about—angelic but with an edge, the type you remember for the rest of your life.

And when she looked at me, there was a faint hostility and disdain, as if to say she was the only one who mattered to Graham Carter.

Her eyes glittered with challenge, daring me to make a scene. I refused to give her the satisfaction.

Maddie didn’t rush forward to question him, but quietly picked up the divorce letter from the ground, wrote Graham Carter’s name, and pulled me away.

She was silent, but the set of her jaw spoke volumes. Loyalty can take many forms, and hers was as fierce as it was quiet.

"Ma’am, let’s go home!" She tugged me along, though her steps were slow. I laughed, suddenly feeling lighter.

My laugh sounded strange, foreign—more relief than joy. It was the sound of a door closing, for good this time.

I should have known—the second male lead loving the heroine is the default. The story may be over, but people don’t change.

The world kept spinning, same as always. I’d finally stepped out of the spotlight, and for once, I was glad.

Loving a man tangled up with the heroine is like trying to carry water in a colander—if you don’t let go in time, all you’ll get is heartbreak.

It’s a lesson carved into the bones of every girl who’s ever been second choice. You learn to patch up the holes and move on.

"Do you want to pack anything?" Only when we reached the gate did Maddie remember. I took her hand and walked out of Carter’s Clinic.

The gravel crunched beneath our feet, the old porch light flickering behind us. I didn’t even bother looking back.

There was never anything here worth clinging to.

I let the memories fade, one step at a time.

By the time we got home, night had fallen.

The streetlights cast long shadows across the front lawn, the house a beacon of warmth in the cool dusk. Porch lights glowed, moths circling lazily around the bulbs.

Dad hurried over as soon as he heard, his eyes red-rimmed.

He shuffled in wearing his Bears sweatshirt and faded jeans, rubbing sleep from his eyes, the way he always did when I was sick as a kid.

"Why have you come back?" He was filled with worry, and when he saw my pallor, he was momentarily speechless.

He caught my arm, eyes scanning for any sign of fever, injury, or heartbreak he could fix. But this was beyond even him.

He hadn’t seen me this sick in a long time; now that he did, tears welled in his eyes.

He tried to hide it, but his voice wavered. Dads can be strong, but not when it comes to their daughters.

"Let’s go inside first." Dad choked up, turning away to wipe his tears. I pretended not to notice, but my heart ached for him.

He led me to the living room, old photos and childhood trophies lining the mantel. The house smelled like apple pie and home.

Dad has always treated me well. My mom died young, leaving only me—weak and sickly. Everyone said I wouldn’t survive, but Dad insisted on raising me.

He did it all—packed my lunch, braided my hair, sat through every school play and hospital visit. He never complained, not once.

No one knows better than I how much he wanted me to live, so he had me marry Graham Carter, hoping I could have a good life.

He thought he was doing the right thing—giving me a shot at happiness, at health. For that, I could never blame him.

But now, I have returned. He didn’t even need to ask to know something had happened.

There was an understanding between us—some things didn’t need to be said. He just squeezed my hand and nodded.

"Dad, get some rest." When I returned, I found my room had been kept just as it was before I married.

The same posters on the wall, the same stuffed animals lined up on the shelf. It was like coming home from a long journey, finding everything unchanged.

Looking at Dad’s loving eyes, I suddenly felt there was nothing left to grieve.

His love was steady, unshakeable. It was the only thing I’d ever been sure of.

What does the second male lead matter? That’s out of my hands. But Dad is mine alone, not bound by the plot, never loving any other child.

He belonged to me, and I to him. The rest of the story didn’t matter anymore.

"Whatever it is, talk about it tomorrow. Nat, rest well. No matter what, you have your dad." With just those words, all my grievances surged up.

His voice was thick with emotion, and for once, I let myself lean into it, letting the tears come freely.

"Okay." I held back my tears and went inside. I was no longer a child—how could I let Dad worry about me again?

I wiped my eyes, promising myself I’d be strong for him, just as he’d always been for me.

Maddie understood and said nothing.

She just squeezed my shoulder and left me to my thoughts, knowing sometimes silence was the greatest comfort.

Only after returning to my room did my tears finally fall. My chest churned, that mouthful of blood stuck inside.

I buried my face in the pillow, letting the pain out in broken sobs. I was finally home, but the ache lingered.

In the end, I still fell asleep. But as soon as I opened my eyes, Maddie said, "Graham Carter is here."

She stood in the doorway, worry etched deep in her eyes, her voice barely above a whisper.