Forgotten Wife: My Ex-Husband Regrets It After I Left novel Chapter 110

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Sienna’s POV

The night felt long. I couldn’t close my eyes, even though my body was tired, even though my eyes burned with unshed tears. I lay in Noah’s room, letting his little arms wrap around my waist. He slept soundly, his face calm, his breathing deep, as if the world had never hurt him.

But my thoughts kept spinning. Liam’s words, Emily’s gaze, everything tangled together in my head. Could my decision be wrong again? Was I just repeating the same pattern of giving my heart to someone who had broken it time and time again, then pretending to be strong, pretending everything was okay for my son’s sake?

My hand instinctively moved to stroke Noah’s head, adjusting the blanket. I hugged him tightly, as if trying to assure him that whatever happened, this child wouldn’t feel the storm I was harboring inside.

I closed my eyes briefly, hoping to find peace in the darkness, but instead, the image of Emily’s face appeared. Her gaze, both sharp and fragile, brought me back to the reality that Liam’s past was never truly gone. Emily was still there, real, standing in front of this house, challenging the space I’d tried to

recreate with Noah.

I took a deep breath, lowering my face to Noah. The child was still motionless in his sleep, occasionally murmuring softly as if in a sweet dream. His tiny fingers gripped the hem of my shirt, keeping me from moving far. That small touch felt like an anchor, reminding me of why I’d returned to this house, why I’d chosen to stay despite my heart still being torn apart.

“Mommy’s here,” I whispered softly, though she couldn’t possibly hear. The words weren’t just for her, but for myself as well. A promise I’d repeated, so I wouldn’t waver.

My eyes shifted to the ceiling. The dim light from the nightlight cast faint shadows on the walls, forming patterns that moved every time the breeze from the window crept in. Tonight was different. There was fear, but also a tinge of relief, because the truth had finally come out. Liam wasn’t hiding Emily, nor was he pretending. But still, my heart wasn’t completely at peace.

I remembered the old days, long nights when I cried silently in this room, not wanting Noah to hear. Those old wounds seemed to be pressing against me again, merging with the anxiety I’d felt earlier. It felt like I was standing at the same crossroads, having to choose whether to believe or give in.

My hand stroked Noah’s hair again, longer this time, until my fingers trembled. “I won’t let you see Mommy broken again,” I murmured. “You have to keep seeing Mommy strong.”

The tears finally fell, falling softly onto the pillow. I quickly wiped them away, afraid the wetness would disturb Noah’s sleep. There was a part of me that wanted to be angry, wanted to run, wanted to scream at Liam for letting Emily into our circle again. But another part remained silent, trying to understand, trying to believe that he truly chose me.

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The seconds were heavy. The clock on the small table ticked slowly, each tick seeming to confirm that

this night would never end.

I pulled the blanket tighter, hugged Noah tightly, closed my eyes even though my heart still pounded with anxiety. In my son’s arms, I finally found a little space to breathe. Not complete peace, but enough to make me confident I could survive until morning.

Amidst the fear and exhaustion, a small realization crept in, maybe I didn’t need to find all the answers

tonight. Maybe just making sure Noah was safe, that I was still by his side was enough. For now, that was

enough.

Slowly, the heaviness in my eyelids began to overcome the noise of my thoughts. Noah’s steady

breathing became soft, lulling music. And finally, with his warm grip on my shirt, I let myself sink into sleep, despite the storm that awaited me the next day.

Time passed slowly. I don’t even remember when I finally fell asleep. When I opened my eyes, morning light was already creeping in through the window blinds. Noah was still curled up in my arms, his lips slightly parted, his breathing light. There was something both comforting and suffocating every time I

looked at him.

Slowly, I got up, made sure Noah was still covered with the blanket, and then stepped out of the room. The house was still silent. I headed to the kitchen, took a deep breath, and tried to start the day as usual,

as if last night were just a nightmare.

I put on my apron and began preparing breakfast. My hands moved automatically, cracking eggs, preparing toast, and heating the pan. Despite all the routine, my heart remained heavy, but I held it in.

Not long after, I heard small footsteps coming from the hallway. “Mommy?” Noah’s voice was hoarse, a

sign of having just woken up.

I turned my head and smiled slightly, pretending to be casual. “Morning, honey. Are you awake?”

Noah nodded, rubbed his eyes, and sat down at the dining table. “Mommy, can I have fried chicken for breakfast?” he asked innocently, his eyes sparkling with the hope typical of children.

I smiled more sincerely this time. “Okay. Mommy will make it, okay?”

His face immediately lit up. “Yay!” he exclaimed softly, then leaned his chin on the table, watching me cook like he always had since he was little.

As I was seasoning the chicken, I heard another set of footsteps. Heavy, more regular. It was Liam.

He appeared in the kitchen, his hair still messy, his face looking exhausted but calmer than the night before. “Morning,” he said curtly, as if trying to keep his voice even.

“Morning,” I replied, remaining focused on the frying pan.

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“Can I help you?” he asked, moving a little closer.

I shook my head without looking. “No need. Just get ready for work,” I said softly, trying to sound casual.

Liam paused for a moment, then nodded slightly. “Okay,” he replied, then walked back to the bedroom.

Before long, the sound of the shower could be heard faintly from our room. I returned my focus to the food in front of me, trying to calm my heartbeat, which had suddenly become irregular.

The fried chicken was cooked, and I drained it onto a plate. The aroma of the spices filled the kitchen, and for a moment, the house felt normal. As if there had been no argument last night, no old wounds had been rekindled, no other woman had reappeared bringing a storm.

I placed the fried chicken on the table and returned to the kitchen to prepare the rest. My hands moved automatically, chopping tomatoes, preparing stir–fries, turning the stove back on. It all felt like a routine, but inside my head, a tumultuous buzz was running. The knife clattered against the cutting board, the sound repeating itself, both soothing and tense.

Every time I paused, the image of Emily’s face from last night immediately appeared. Her faint smile, the look in her eyes, the bitter words she’d spoken, all lingered. I tried to banish it by returning my focus to the pan in front of me, adding garlic, listening to the sizzle of hot oil. The sound was like an old friend,

calming me.

I didn’t want this house to be haunted by anxiety. Noah needed a cheerful morning, needed his mother to be at peace. So I set the plates, added warm rice, poured a glass of milk, and made breakfast as lively as

possible.