The car rolled to a stop, and Graham Severan stepped out first, moving around to open the door for Rosemary. She hesitated for a fraction of a second before accepting his hand, her grip light but steady. As soon as she was upright, he let go, his gaze sweeping over her in quick assessment, ensuring she was strong enough to stand on her own.

  Rosemary lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the sunlight and took in the sight of their house. The red-brick structure stood tall and dignified on the quiet, tree-lined street, its sturdy fa?ade softened by ivy curling along the edges. Large bay windows framed in dark wood hinted at the warmth within, while the wrought-iron gate, functional rather than decorative, formed a quiet boundary between the home and the bustling city beyond. Before, she had scorned its simplicity, longing for something grander, but now, with fresh eyes, she saw it for what it was: a home, unwavering and solid, patiently waiting for her return.

  She turned her head slightly and caught sight of Carter—their driver, yes, but also Graham’s old comrade from the war. Before, she had barely acknowledged him, viewing him as little more than another fixture in the household. But now, guilt stirred in her chest, pressing against the unfamiliar warmth of gratitude.

  “You must be tired from the drive,” she said, her voice softer than it once was, lacking its usual indifference. Then, after a pause, she added, “And for taking care of Graham all these years.”

  Carter’s brows lifted slightly before he quickly straightened, nodding. “Just doing my duty, madam.”

  Duty. It was a word Rosemary was only beginning to understand. She wasn’t sure if she could truly make amends, but for the first time in years, she was willing to try.

  The air between them grew heavy again, thick with unspoken emotions. Just as she considered how to break the silence, Graham spoke.

  “You go inside first. I’ll pick up the boy.”

  And with that, he turned and strode off without another word.

  Rosemary watched him go before exhaling softly. Shrugging, she pushed open the creaking courtyard gate and stepped inside.

  The moment she crossed the threshold, she felt as if she had stepped from a dream into reality. The courtyard, with its uneven stones and creeping vines, looked just as she remembered—yet different, too. Her memories of this place had always been colored by resentment, but now they returned to her like flickering images from an old film. It was strange how the same place could feel so foreign, as if she had never truly seen it before.

  The house itself bore the marks of time and repair. Though solidly built, sections of the fa?ade showed signs of patchwork—newer bricks filling in gaps where old ones had crumbled, wooden beams reinforcing areas once left to wear. This district had been rebuilt from the ruins of war, a settlement layered over the remnants of a lost era. Their home, once belonging to a declining noble family, had been salvaged, reinforced, and made livable again. Beneath the additions and repairs, one could still see the graceful bones of the past.

  Yet, despite its history, Rosemary had always found it lacking. Compared to the grand, symmetrical estates of the aristocracy, this home felt patched together, neither old nor new, neither lavish nor poor. Before, she had scorned its imperfections. Now, she recognized them for what they were—signs of resilience, of survival.

  Stepping into the house, Rosemary was immediately enveloped by a sense of quiet history. The layout was traditional—a parlor in the front, flanked by rooms on either side. The west side housed Graham’s study, a large desk positioned by the window, while the eastern rooms had been divided into a suite, one section serving as their bedroom and the other as their son’s nursery.

  Her steps carried her toward the bedroom first. The furniture inside bore the weight of age. A grand wardrobe stood against one wall. Dust motes danced in the light as Rosemary reached out, her fingers grazing the cool glass.

  The reflection that met her gaze was both familiar and foreign.

  The woman before her wore fine clothes—ones that marked her as fashionable, elegant. Her hair, styled in the latest revolutionized fashion, framed a face that, despite illness, still retained a quiet radiance. She looked… untouched, as if her months of turmoil had left no mark. But Rosemary knew better. The changes lay deeper, hidden beneath the surface.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Drawing in a breath, she stepped away and turned to the wardrobe, opening its heavy doors. Inside, a collection of dresses hung neatly, accompanied by gloves, hats, and shoes. The sight of them unsettled her. They belonged to a woman who had once taken her place in this house, yet they were hers. She was that woman, and yet—she no longer was.

  Closing the wardrobe, she glanced around the bedroom once more, reacquainting herself with what had once been familiar. Then, her gaze drifted toward the east room.

  Stepping inside, she found it much the same in layout, wooden toys were scattered across the floor. A rocking horse stood in the corner, its wooden head worn smooth from use. Slowly, Rosemary reached out and ran her fingers over it, a lump forming in her throat.

  The guilt was overwhelming.

  Before she could fully gather herself, a small voice interrupted her thoughts.

  “Mommy?”

  She turned sharply.

  Graham stood just outside the door, watching, as a small boy took an eager step forward. And then, in an instant, he was in her arms.

  “Mommy! You’re back!”

  The moment the small body lunged into her arms, Rosemary felt a wave of warmth and sorrow rise in her chest. The scent of childhood—milk, sun, and a faint trace of honey—filled her senses, cutting through the numbness she had carried for days.

  When she came back to herself, she lifted her gaze, only to find Graham Severan watching her with an unreadable expression. His sharp eyes flickered over her, assessing, measuring. She hardly noticed. She was already kneeling on the ground, her arms wrapped tightly around her son, silent tears slipping down her cheeks.

  She hadn’t even gotten a good look at him yet.

  Loosening her embrace, she leaned back, allowing space for the boy to stand straight. Finally, they faced each other.

  People say you can tell a child's character from an early age.

  Gairos Severan had inherited his father’s striking features—the fine, well-formed brows, the straight, noble line of his nose. Though still young, he already carried himself with an air of quiet composure, like a boy well-mannered beyond his years.

  Rosemary could only stare.

  The boy, cheerful just moments ago, faltered at the sight of her tear-streaked face. His small mouth parted in concern. "Mama, why are you crying?"

  She wiped her cheek hastily.

  Rosemary had shed tears before—alone, behind locked doors, where no one could see her weakness. But now, under Graham’s silent scrutiny, she found herself exposed in a way she had never been before.

  Still, she forced a smile. "Because I missed you so much."

  Gairos let out a relieved breath, then nodded solemnly. "I missed you too, Mama! You’ve been gone for days. I kept asking when you would come back, but Daddy always said he didn’t know."

  Rosemary’s eyes flickered toward Graham.

  He stood with his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, his posture still, his expression impassive. But when she met his gaze, he turned his head away.

  Oblivious to the silent exchange, Gairos continued, "I told Daddy to go find you, but he wouldn’t. He said if I asked again, he’d give me a good thrashing."

  The little boy pursed his lips in indignation, his eyes shining with grievance.

  Rosemary smoothed his hair. "And did he?"

  "No." Gairos sniffled. Then, with great conviction, he added, "But he’s still bad for taking so long to bring you home."

  It was a big mercy that Graham hadn’t raised a hand against the child in his frustration. Considering the circumstances, Rosemary suspected he had gone through his own share of anger, pain, and internal war. The fact that he had restrained himself—had not lashed out at their son, nor let his bitterness spill over—was perhaps the best proof of his control.

  Not bad for a man who had built all wealthy from nothing.

  "It wasn’t your father’s fault," Rosemary murmured, drawing Gairos into her arms again. Her voice softened. "It was mine." She pressed her lips to the top of his head. "And I promise you, my darling, I will never leave you for so long again."

  A vow.

  A mother’s vow—one that held more weight than any she had ever spoken before.

  She felt Gairos shift in her arms. His small hands patted her back clumsily, the way a child mimics an adult’s gestures of comfort.

  "Don’t cry, Mama," he whispered. "If you have to go away, take me with you next time."

  Rosemary exhaled a quiet laugh, wiping the last of her tears as she nodded. "Alright."

  When she glanced up again, Graham was no longer standing in the doorway.

  She didn’t call for him.

  Instead, she focused on Gairos, asking gently, "Have you had your lunch yet?"

  The boy nodded. "Yes. There was rib soup and roasted vegetables. They weren’t bad."

  Rosemary’s gaze flickered over him. Though he had been apart from her, he looked well. His cheeks were full, his clothes clean and neatly pressed. The nurse had taken good care of him in her absence.

  She had always thought of her son as a quiet, reserved child—well-mannered but solemn beyond his years. But today, for the first time, she saw something different. The brightness in his eyes. The ease of his laughter.

  What would have happened if she had never returned?

  Would that light have faded? Would the joy in his voice have withered away?

  A deep ache settled in her chest.

  She reached out and cupped his small face, her thumb brushing his warm cheek.

  From now on, this boy would be happy.

  She would not let that smile disappear.

  She would not fail him again.