They Came Back To No Home Chapter 02

They Came Back To No Home Chapter 02

I opened Rylie’s IG. It was public.

She had posted a photo dump on the twentieth.

The first photo showed flight tickets.

The second showed a shopping haul, featuring a man’s back as he pushed a shopping cart. It was Peyton.

The caption read: [We’re leaving soon! Shopping spree to drain someone’s wallet.]

That day, I lay on the delivery table while the nurse pressed on my belly, yelling at me to push.

My mother stood in the hallway, holding three signed consent forms, unable to reach her son-in-law.

Fifteen hours of agonizing labor, and he never showed up.

So he was out shopping with Rylie.

I slowly shuffled out of bed, sharp pain pulling at my incision with every step, until I made it to the study.

I opened the safe.

The property deed lay right on top. Three pages long, with only my name—Melody Walsh—listed as the sole owner.

A downtown penthouse, over three thousand square feet.

I bought it in full before our marriage.

Only my name was on the deed.

When Peyton was pursuing me, he claimed he would buy our future home.

It had been three years.

I paid for this place. Every last brick, every fixture—my money, every cent.

His only contribution was himself.

I pulled out the deed, opened the first page, and snapped a photo.

I opened my contacts and dialed Otis Coombs, the real estate agent.

“Otis, it’s Melody.”

“Oh, Ms. Walsh, long time no hear!”

“My apartment—help me list it. Cash buyers preferred; close the deal within a week.”

Silence fell over the other end for a few seconds. “Are you sure? The market’s hot right now, but a week is tight…”

“I’m sure.”

I closed the property deed and slipped it into my bag.

“I have the keys. Show it anytime.”

After hanging up, I slid down against the bookshelf, resting the back of my head against the ice-cold wood.

Another sharp throb hit my stomach.

I thought back to the past year of my pregnancy, when he was always “too busy.”

I went to prenatal checkups alone, sitting on hospital benches in line from morning till night.

I prepared everything for the baby alone, from the crib to the formula and diapers.

Through all of it, he was busy.

Now, he took his paternity leave just to go to Europe with someone else.

My throat tightened, like I’d swallowed a burning coal.

My phone buzzed.

A private message from Rylie.

A photo in front of a snow-capped mountain. She was standing close to Peyton, her eyes crinkling with smiles.

Underneath was a line of text:

[Melody, don’t blame Peyton. He’s always been a family-first kind of guy.]

[I told him not to come, but he insisted on coming along.]

At the end was a hand-over-mouth laughing emoji.

I stared at that emoji.

Before I could reply, an incoming call popped up.

Cathleen.

I answered it. Before I could speak, her voice blasted through the speaker.

“You have the nerve to bother Peyton?”

I froze for a second.

“You gave birth to a worthless girl; what’s there to make a scene about?”

“You’ve got a nanny waiting on you hand and foot. Does my son need to sit around holding your hand too?”

“He’s being a good son, taking me to Europe. That’s only right!”

“What’s with the late-night call? You’re putting a damper on our whole vacation!”

I heard my own breathing—slow, heavy.

“Cathleen,” I called out, squeezing the word through my teeth. “I gave birth to your granddaughter.”

“Granddaughter?” She burst out laughing. “Can a granddaughter carry on the family name?”

Her laugh was sharp, shrill.

The call ended.

The living room fell dead silent.

So quiet that I could hear Tanya’s faint breathing from the bedroom, rhythmically soft.

I looked down at my bleeding incision.

Faint red blood seeped through the gauze once again.

I slowly stood up, shuffled back to the bedroom, and picked up my phone.

I screenshotted every one of Peyton’s IG posts.

I took screenshots of every message Cathleen sent in the family chat.

I took screenshots of Rylie’s messages, including that hand-over-mouth emoji.

I took screenshots of Elwood’s reply, including the date—the twentieth of last month.

Then, I opened my chat with my best friend, Paige Dawson.

I typed a line, then deleted it.

Typed again. Deleted again.

In the end, I sent just one line: [Paige, I’m divorcing Peyton.]

Sent.

Locked the screen.

Outside the window, the city lights turned on one by one.

And soon, one by one, they’d go dark again.