The front steps creaked just like they always had.
Jade stood on the porch of her childhood home, clutching her overnight bag like it was packed with failure. Her fingers had gone numb from gripping the strap too tightly, knuckles white, nails bitten down to the quick.
The garden was overgrown, wild mint clawing up the porch railings, dandelions bursting through cracks in the cement like they had something to prove. The wind chime above the door clinked lazily in the breeze, a familiar melody that once welcomed her after school with the scent of stew and her mother's voice calling her name.
Now it just sounded… hollow.
Everything looked the same, heartbreakingly familiar, and yet it felt like standing at the edge of a grave.
She told herself this would help. Going home.
Letting herself be small again. Maybe, for just one night, she could feel safe.
But the moment her mother opened the door, she knew.
Not here.
Her mother didn't smile. Didn't ask how she was. Just looked her up and down like she was already bracing herself for disappointment.
"You're thinner," her mother said flatly. "Drama queens always forget to eat."
Jade swallowed the shame rising in her throat. Inside, the house smelled like fabric softener and instant coffee, comforts that once soothed her now turned sour in her gut.
Her father didn't look up from the television, lounging in his recliner like a statue carved from resentment. Her brother, Justin, was scrolling through his phone at the dining table, jaw clenched, hoodie pulled over his head. No one stood. No one said hello.
She hovered near the doorway like a guest waiting for permission.
Her mother finally took the bag from her hands with a reluctant sigh. "We weren't expecting you."
Jade tried to smile, but it cracked. "I thought… maybe I could stay for a night or two."
"You thought wrong," came the sharp reply, slicing through the hallway like a knife.
In the kitchen, the clatter of cups and saucers was louder than necessary. Her mother's movements were brisk and angry, as if even boiling water for tea was a punishment.
No one asked how she was healing. No one asked about the hospital. No one asked anything at all.
Over bitter tea served in chipped floral china, her mother finally spoke.
"So. You've finally worn out your welcome."
Jade blinked. "What?"
Her mother stirred her cup, eyes fixed on the spoon. "I warned you not to marry that boy. Everyone knew he was in love with Vivien."
"I didn't—" Jade started, but her throat closed around the words.
"Oh, come off it," her father called from the living room. "The whole country saw it. You pranced around like some Hollywood wife, thinking you could play house and keep him. And now you want to show up here like a poor little victim?"
"It was an accident," Jade whispered. "The baby—"
Her brother scoffed, not even looking up. "An accident? You locked yourself in that penthouse, ignored every call, kept Cole from his friends, and suddenly you fall down the stairs the moment Vivien reappears?"
Her heart cracked in a soundless echo. "Justin, I would never—"
"Don't say my name like we're close," he snapped. "I was his best friend. I vouched for you. You used that."
She stared at him, disbelieving. Her brother. Her protector. The one who once stayed up with her when she had nightmares, who taught her how to ride a bike, who laughed with her on Christmas morning like they were the only two in the world.
Gone. All gone.
"You think you can act your way out of this?" her mother cut in. "You've always been theatrical. Even now. You lost his baby. You lost the one thing tethering you to him. And now what? You want sympathy?"
Jade gripped the counter to keep herself upright. Her lips trembled, but no sound came out. The pain in her stomach, where her child once stirred, throbbed like a ghost screaming from inside her.
"I needed… somewhere to go," she whispered.
Her father finally stood, arms folded over his chest like he was defending the last ounce of pride this house still had. "Well. You're here. Congratulations. But don't expect us to forget what you've done."
Justin shoved back his chair with a scrape that echoed off the tile. He grabbed his jacket and muttered, "I'm going to Cole's. At least he didn't fake a tragedy to keep someone who never loved him."
The door slammed behind him.
And Jade stood frozen in the kitchen, surrounded by people who should've loved her. People who once celebrated her every little milestone. Her first recital. Her college acceptance. The night she brought Cole home, face flushed with excitement.
Now, those same people looked through her like she was a stain they couldn't scrub out.
No one reached out.
No one told her to sit, or rest, or breathe.
She wasn't a daughter anymore.
She was a scandal. A wife without a husband. A mother without a child. A woman who had failed, and whose family had already rewritten her grief into guilt.
Her mother sipped her tea again, unfazed. "You always did love playing the victim, Jade."
The words hung like smoke in the air.
And that's when Jade understood:
There was no home to return to. Not anymore.
She wasn't welcome here. She wasn't wanted anywhere.
Not by Cole. Not by her parents. Not even by the people who should've known her best.
The last place she thought she could find refuge had slammed its doors around her like a mausoleum.
And so, late into the night, when no one was watching, Jade gathered her bag in silence and left again, walking into the darkness, into the unknown, with tears streaming down her face and one trembling hand pressed against her stomach.
For the first time, she truly felt alone.
And not even the stars looked down.