Forgotten Wife: My Ex-Husband Regrets It After I Left novel Chapter 111

Sienna’s POV

My hand paused as I placed the last spoon on the table. A strange feeling surged through me, the feeling that I was desperately trying to hold on to something that could collapse at any moment. It felt like preparing a shield, even though I knew another storm might come.

I took a deep breath and returned to the kitchen to wash the dishes. The water ran fast, its coolness against my skin, making me a little more conscious. The sound of the shower in the bedroom was still faintly audible. That meant I still had a few minutes to calm down before I had to face Liam again.

I looked down at my reflection in the water reflecting off the sink. My face looked tired, and I had dark circles under my eyes. But there was something there, a small, if faint, resolve. A determination not to waver, no matter what.

Noah had already changed his clothes, and I could even hear the sound of his toothbrush brushing in the small bathroom near his room. He was a quick learner, and behind all his efforts to be a good boy, I knew he just wanted to make me happy, to make this house feel more peaceful.

A moment later, Liam emerged from the room, dressed in his office attire. A crisp white shirt, a navy tie, his hair neatly combed, just like before everything fell apart.

I set the plates on the dining table. Noah sat there sweetly, his face cheerful, his hands ready with his fork and spoon. Liam sat across from him, staring at him for a moment, then glanced at me with a look I couldn’t quite decipher.

We began breakfast. The sound of spoons scraping against plates was the only sound at the table. Noah told me about school, about the drawing assignment he’d planned to display on the classroom wall. Liam listened, nodding occasionally, and even chuckled.

I just sat there quietly, listening to them, occasionally taking a bite of food, hiding the storm inside me

behind a forced smile.

I placed a small piece of chicken on Noah’s plate. “If Noah’s picture is on display, Mommy will want to see it,” I said quietly, trying to join in the conversation.

Noah turned his head, his face bright. “Yes, Mommy has to see it! I drew a house with Mommy, Daddy, and me too!” he said excitedly, his eyes sparkling.

My heart fluttered slightly. “Oh really? What does the picture look like?”

He raised both hands, trying to form a triangular roof. “The house is big, there are two windows, and Mommy is reading a book on the sofa. Daddy is sitting in the chair. I’m playing with toy cars.”

I smiled faintly, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to fall. It was so simple, but for Noah, the

house was his world.

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“Amazing,” Liam said suddenly, his voice warm. “You drew us completely, didn’t you?”

Noah nodded proudly. “Because I like it when the three of us are home. It feels good.”

A brief silence fell over the table. The spoon in my hand paused, and I looked down briefly so Noah wouldn’t see my teary eyes. Liam stared at him for a long moment, then finally patted Noah’s head gently.

“You’re a great kid, Noah,” he said softly.

Noah chuckled. “I know.” He continued eating greedily, oblivious to the slight tension between us.

I took a deep breath, trying to soften my tone. “When Mommy comes to school, can Noah show me the picture, okay?”

“Do you really want to see it?” he asked hopefully.

I nodded firmly. “Yes, honey. Mommy promises.”

Noah smiled broadly, then went back to telling me about his friends, about the little competition in class, about the teacher who liked to praise his work. His words flowed without interruption, lightening the

atmosphere a little.

I glanced at Liam briefly. He was listening intently, but occasionally his gaze would flick to me. There was something there, a mix of relief, awkwardness, and a sense of disbelief.

I quickly looked down again, pretending to be busy with my plate.

At the dining table, there was only Noah’s cheerful voice, the occasional clink of spoons, and our silence,

too full for words.

Every now and then, Liam and I met. It wasn’t for long, just a split second, but enough to make my chest feel strangely tight and warm at the same time. There were so many words I wanted to say, but my

tongue was heavy.

Breakfast seemed beautiful, almost like a normal family meal. It was as if nothing had happened last

night. As if Emily had never come, never stirred up the wounds that hadn’t yet fully healed.

But I knew, deep behind the tidy table, behind Noah’s sincere smile, there was still so much we needed to talk about, so much we needed to work through. The wounds were still there. My trust was still fragile.

I looked at Noah, who chuckled because the fried chicken was too hot and made him blow his nose quickly, and I smiled, this time without pretense. This boy was the center of it all, the reason I kept going, the reason I dared to try again despite the fear of getting hurt.

I glanced at Liam. He was looking at Noah with calm, almost serene eyes, like a father rediscovering something he’d once forgotten.

And somehow, I felt like maybe, just maybe, there was a small hope we could nurture again. Not because I

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was sure everything would be smooth sailing, but because at the simple dinner table that morning, beneath the awkward silence, a glimmer of warmth had quietly returned to life.

Once breakfast was finished, I cleared the dishes while Liam was already standing at the door. Noah stood next to him, waving his little hand enthusiastically as usual.

“Daddy, be careful on the way!” he called cheerfully. Liam smiled faintly, waved back, then glanced at me briefly before finally walking out, quietly closing the door.

The house was quiet again. The only sound was the sound of Noah’s footsteps returning to his room, probably looking for his favorite toy or book. I stood for a few seconds in front of the newly closed door, taking a deep breath, trying to dispel the emptiness that had suddenly invaded.

I walked into the room and grabbed the laptop that had been sitting in the corner of the table. It felt like I hadn’t written in days. Writing used to be my escape, my way of breathing. Hard days always felt lighter

when I put them into words.

I set up the laptop on the dining table and opened the file of my unfinished novel. The blank screen stared back at me, the old letters sitting motionless. My fingers touched the keyboard, ready to type, but

my mind was stuck.

Not a single word would come out. Everything I wanted to write seemed stuck in my chest, refusing to

become words. I stared at the screen for a long time, then closed my eyes, trying to force it. But all I felt was fatigue, heaviness, and confusion.

I slowly closed my laptop, rested my chin on my hand, and stared blankly toward the kitchen. It felt like

there were thousands of stories inside me, but none of them were ready to be released. Only silence

continued to accompany me.