Her duffle bag sat at the foot of the bed, brought up by Liam while she was putting the girls to sleep. She approached it slowly, unzipping it to reveal the hastily packed contents — clothes jumbled together, toiletries wrapped in plastic bags, the book she’d been reading.
With methodical movements, she began unpacking, hanging blouses in the closet, folding jeans into dresser drawers. Each item returned to its place represented a small commitment to staying, to trying, to believing that second chances were possible.
As she hung the last blouse in the closet, Sunny’s movements slowed, her fingers lingering on the familiar fabric. The act of unpacking — of reclaiming space — had always been fraught with uncertainty for her. How many times had she carefully arranged her meager belongings in a new foster home, only to pack them up weeks or months later when the placement inevitably fell through?
“It’s just not working out,” they would say. Or worse, “She’s a lovely girl, but not quite the right fit for our family.” Always the same message beneath the gentle euphemisms: not enough, not wanted, not permanent.
She sank onto the edge of the bed, suddenly overwhelmed by the parallels. Hadn’t Liam’s words echoed those same sentiments just days ago? His career, the girls’ stability, the team’s pressure — all reasons why she wasn’t “the right fit” for the life he had built. She had heard those justifications so many times before, from so many different adults, that she had come to expect them, to brace for the inevitable rejection.
And yet, here she was again, hanging clothes in a closet, arranging toiletries on a bathroom shelf, going through the motions of settling in despite the voice in her head warning her not to get too comfortable. The foster child in her — that watchful, wary girl who learnt early to keep her bags half-packed — whispered that this was temporary too, that Liam’s resolve would crumble under the first real pressure, that history would repeat itself because it always did.
But another voice, newer and less certain, reminded her of how Liam had searched for her, how he had stood before reporters and chosen her over everything he had built his identity around. No one had ever come looking for her before. No one had ever fought to bring her back.
Perhaps that was the true risk — not that she would trust too easily, but that her lifetime of trained caution might blind her to the possibility that this time, finally, someone might actually want her to stay.
At the bottom of the bag, her fingers encountered something unexpected — a folded piece of paper that she was sure hadn’t been there when she’d packed. Curious, she withdrew it, carefully unfolding the creased sheet.
It was a drawing, clearly made by Hailey’s untrained hand — stick figures standing in front of a house, the tallest figure labeled “Daddy” in wobbly letters, two smaller figures marked as “Me” and “Maddie,” and a fourth, slightly shorter than “Daddy,” labeled “Sunni.” Above the house, in a bright yellow sun, were the words “PLEASE COME HOME.”
The simple illustration demolished the last of Sunny’s composure. She sank onto the edge of the bed, clutching the drawing to her chest as silent tears flowed freely.
This was what she had almost lost — not just Liam’s love, but this sense of belonging, of mattering deeply to two little girls who had already endured more loss than any child should face. They had claimed her as theirs, drawn her into their concept of home and family with the instinctive wisdom of children who recognize genuine care when they receive it.
A soft knock interrupted her emotional moment. Hastily wiping her eyes, Sunny called, “Come in.”
The door opened to reveal Liam, still in the clothes he’d worn for the drive, his face etched with the weariness of emotional exhaustion.
“Hey,” he said softly, hovering in the doorway rather than entering without invitation. “I just wanted to check if you have everything you need.”
“I found this,” Sunny replied, holding up Hailey’s drawing.
Liam’s eyes softened. “She made that the day after you left,” he explained. “Said if we put it under your pillow, you might feel it and know we wanted you back.”
The childish logic, so earnest and hopeful, brought a fresh wave of emotion. “They’re remarkable,” Sunny whispered. “Despite everything they’ve been through.”
“They take after their mother,” Liam said, the reference to Kate natural and reverent rather than painful. Another change, Sunny noted — this new ability to acknowledge Kate’s presence in their lives without it becoming a barrier between them.
A momentary silence stretched between them, filled with all the conversations they still needed to have, all the wounds still tender to the touch.
“About tomorrow—” Liam began.
“Can we talk about it in the morning?” Sunny interjected gently. “I’m just… I need to process today first.”
Liam nodded, respecting her boundaries with none of the defensiveness that might have characterized his response before. “Of course,” he agreed. “Whatever you need. However much time, whatever space — I meant what I said at the cabin. I’ll wait. As long as it takes.”
The sincerity in his voice, the patient determination in his eyes — it was enough to give Sunny hope that perhaps they could find their way back to each other. Not immediately, not without work, but possibly.
“Goodnight, Liam,” she said softly.
“Goodnight, Sunny,” he replied, his hand lingering on the door frame for a beat before he stepped back. “I’m… I’m really glad you’re home.”
After he’d gone, Sunny continued her unpacking, each item finding its placein this room that was simultaneously familiar and strange. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new negotiations of boundaries and expectations.
For tonight, she was simply grateful to be under the same roof as the girls, to have seen their joyful faces, to have held them close again. That certainty — the knowledge that she belonged in their lives, regardless of what happened between her and Liam — was enough to sustain her through the uncertainty ahead.
As she prepared for bed, moving through the motions of her nightly routine, Sunny caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror. The woman who gazed back at her looked tired, emotional, but somehow steadier than the person who had fled five days earlier. She had survived the leaving and the returning. She would survive whatever came next.
Slipping beneath cool sheets, Sunny closed her eyes, listening to the familiar sounds of the house settling around her — the distant hum of the refrigerator, the occasional creak of old wood adjusting to temperature changes, the soft whisper of air through the vents.
