They Came Back To No Home Chapter 01

They Came Back To No Home Chapter 01

Seven days after my C-section, blood was still seeping through my incision.

That same afternoon, my husband, Peyton Robles, posted a series of photos on Instagram with European streets as the backdrop.

He was raising a glass of champagne in a toast with his childhood friend and both sets of parents.

The caption read: [A rare family photo.]

Cathleen Robles, Peyton’s mother, tagged everyone in the family group chat:

[My son is so sweet. Took me and my friends to Europe in first class.]

Rylie Harvey, Peyton’s childhood friend, posted a TikTok.

The camera casually panned across the table to Peyton pouring wine for her parents.

[Thanks to Mr. and Mrs. Robles for treating me like their own daughter.]

The comments piled up fast:

[So sweet for both families to travel to Europe together!]

[That doesn’t look like a friendship—more like a couple!]

[A two-week trip to Europe… that’s basically a honeymoon, isn’t it?]

I locked my phone.

The nanny quietly set a bowl of soup by my bed. I didn’t touch it.

They’d forgotten Peyton was supposed to be on paternity leave—and that the downtown penthouse we lived in was mine, paid off in full before we even married.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t call to rush him back.

Holding my sleeping daughter, I called the real estate agent.

“List the place. Cash buyers preferred. Close the deal within a week.”

Two weeks later, when they returned, the smiles on their faces vanished completely.

…

I stared at the words “family photo,” and my incision throbbed with sharp pain.

I opened our chat.

His last message stopped at seven days ago:

[Sorry, baby. Things are crazy at work, and my boss won’t approve my paternity leave. I hired the best nanny for you.]

My eyes locked on “won’t approve.”

But his current IG location said Paris.

A dozen photos unfurled—champagne, snow-capped peaks, alpine lakes.

And a row of people raising their glasses toward the camera, beaming.

A rare family photo.

My parents weren’t in it. Neither was I, nor was my daughter Tanya.

I stared at the picture. Another sharp pain stabbed through my stomach, as if someone plunged a knife directly into my wound.

I exited IG. The family group chat had over a hundred unread messages.

Cathleen tagged everyone:

[My son is so sweet! Took me and my bestie to Europe in first class! Nothing beats a son’s love!]

Replies flooded the chat:

[Peyton has always been a good kid.]

[Cathleen, you’re so lucky. Your son is successful, your daughterinlaw holds you in such high regard, and she’s so pretty.]

Daughter-in-law.

The daughter-in-law they meant was Rylie.

I scrolled to Rylie’s TikTok.

The camera panned over a dining table, catching Peyton pouring red wine into Rylie’s mother’s glass.

The caption read: [Thanks to Mr. and Mrs. Robles for treating me like their own daughter.]

The comments section had hundreds of replies:

[That doesn’t look like a friendship—more like a couple!]

[A two-week trip to Europe… that’s basically a honeymoon, isn’t it?]

[So sweet for both families to travel to Europe together!]

I flipped my phone face down onto my knees.

My palms were soaked in cold sweat.

I dialed a video call. It rang a few times, then connected.

Clinking glasses and women’s laughter echoed in the background.

“Melody? It’s so late. What’s wrong?”

He kept his voice hushed, as if hiding from someone.

My voice sounded flat and cold. “Where are you?”

“At the office,” he paused. “Busy with a project. Can’t step away.”

“My boss didn’t approve the paternity leave. There’s nothing I can do. Ask the nanny if you need anything, and don’t make a scene.”

Don’t make a scene.

Tanya squirmed in my arms, whimpering with hunger.

I looked down at her. Her small face scrunched up, fists clenched tight.

“When are you coming back?”

“I’m swamped here. Rushing me won’t bring me back any faster.”

Over the line, a woman’s sweet voice called out, “Peyton, come over here!”

“Coming,” he answered, his voice receding from the speaker. “Gotta go. Meeting starts now.”

The call ended.

I put the phone down, my gaze hollow.

Near dawn, I put Tanya back into her crib.

At ten, I sent a text to Elwood Black from Peyton’s department: [Hey Elwood, is Peyton swamped lately? I can barely reach him.]

He replied instantly: [Swamped? He’s been on paternity leave since the twentieth. Hasn’t shown up to work at all.]

The twentieth.

I stared at the date, my fingers freezing over the screen.

My blood ran cold.

That was the day my water broke. I waited for him at the hospital to sign the surgery consent forms.

I waited until I was wheeled into the delivery room, but he never showed up.

In the end, my mother rushed over from out of state and signed the papers for me.

So he was already on vacation back then.