Sienna’s POV


    This pain didn’t arrive all at once. It came slowly–like rain leaking through a roof. Drop by drop, silent and unnoticed, until everything was soaked<b>. </b>That’s how I lost everything–quietly and gradually.


    I forced myself to stand and walk over to the desk. I opened the email I had received that morning–a notification that I had passed the first round of a writing selection from a foreign website. I was supposed to be happy, right?


    I was happy. Truly, I was.


    But <b>that </b>happiness couldn’t mend the other wounds. It couldn’t erase the bitter taste that came with knowing this sess–like everything I’d ever achieved–would mean nothing to anyone in this house.


    I stared at myptop screen again. I dared myself to type a few more sentences into my manuscript, words born from the deepest <b>ache</b>.


    Suddenly, Noah’sughter echoed from outside. This time, <b>Liam’s </b>voice followed. They must have finished baking. Maybe Noah would feed Emily little bites of warm chocte cake<b>, </b>giggling. Maybe Liam would tell Emily she looked like a natural mother.


    Who knows?


    I didn’t want to know.


    I closed theptop slowly and walked toward the window. From between the curtain ts, <b>I </b>saw them in the living room. Noah sat on Emily’sp, feeding her tiny pieces of cake. Liam sat beside them, chuckling softly as Noah licked chocte off his fingers, smearing batter across the sofa.


    A picture of happiness. The <b>kind </b>that should’ve been <b>mine</b>.


    I know people will judge me for feeling this way. I still have a husband, a child, a big house. But they don’t understand what it’s like to be loved for your role, not for your self. To be valued for your cooking, not for who you are when you’re not serving. To be cherished when you’re taking care of everyone–but forgotten when you’re the one who’s unwell.


    I touched my stomach<b>, </b>still sore. The medication from this morning hadn’t fully kicked in. But I’d survive. I had to survive.


    As I closed the curtain, I took a deep breath. I no longer had a ce out there. But I still had one tiny space–inside my words. And that… was just enough to keep me frompletely falling apart.


    A knock broke the silence of my room. I turned my face from the screen just as the door creaked open. Liam stood in the doorway.


    “Noah, Emily, and I are going out for dinner,” he said simply. His voice was <b>calm</b>, but there was a distance in it that couldn’t be. crossed.


    I looked at him for a moment. My lips nearly moved, almost asking if I was invited too. But no words came. Deep down<b>, </b><b>I </b>already knew the answer.


    Liam continued without waiting for a response. “Oh, and Noah’s teacher gave him an assignment. It’s due tomorrow. Help him finish it <b>tonight</b>.”


    He lowered his tone as if to underline the instruction, then turned and walked away.


    The door shut behind him, leaving me alone in a silence that pressed down like weight on my chest. I sat, frozen, letting his words sink in.


    So that was it?


    No invitation. No thought that maybe–I wanted to have dinner with them too. Not even a sentence that suggested I was part of


    their n.


    I stared at the closed door. Empty. Quiet. But not the kind of quiet that soothes–more like the kind that echoes in a hollow <b>space </b><b>that’s </b>never really been filled.


    I took a deep breath, but the tightness didn’t ease. It felt <b>as </b>if <b>even </b>this house had slowly begun rejecting me, turning me into a guest overstaying her wee.


    I looked around. The desk. The small cab. A pile of papers I hadn’t had the energy to organize. The scent of paper, ink, and cold coffee still clinging to the mug.


    All of it bore silent witness to how hard I’d been trying to hold on–to still be the best version of myself, <b>even </b>when no one


    seemed to care.


    Maybe I’d hoped for too much. Maybe I’d hoped Liam would still see me–not just as a backup <b>nanny</b>, not as someone to be tasked with homework–but <b>as</b>… his wife. As someone who wanted to be included, loved, seen.


    I closed my eyes for a moment. No. I wouldn’t cry over this again. But the tears still welled up, hanging like fog I couldn’t disperse. I swallowed them slowly, as always. Because crying wouldn’t change anything.


    <b>I </b>had just brought in a stack of neatly foldedundry from the front door. The fresh scent of fabric softener lingered on my fingertips as I carried it carefully to each room. It had been part of my routine for years.


    I knew which shirt belonged to <b>Liam</b>, which uniform to <b>Noah</b>, and which clothes–oddly unfamiliar–belonged to <b>Emily</b><b>. </b>1


    When I reached Emily’s room, I paused. The door was slightly ajar, the curtains fluttering gently from the balcony breeze. I knocked twice, softly. No response.


    Cautiously, I stepped inside–only to set the clothes on the small shelf by the wall.


    But as I was arranging them carefully on the ss table, the bathroom door swung open.


    Emily stepped out, towel–drying her hair. She froze when she saw me.


    Her eyes widened slightly. I offered a small, awkward smile–trying to maintain the politeness I always did.


    “Sorry, I <b>was </b>just dropping off your <bundry</b>,” I murmured. My voice barely above a whisper.


    I stood up straight. My fingers trembled a little–I wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the feeling of being a guest in my own house.


    <b>Or </b><b>maybe </b>it <b>was </b>the look in Emily’s eyes. She didn’t seem surprised or embarrassed–just… annoyed.


    “Just leave it at the door, Sienna. No need toe in,” she said sharply. Cold. Without a trace of courtesy.


    I flinched. Her words hit like a p. My breath caught.


    “S–sorry. I thought…”


    My voice trailed off. There was no excuse. No justification th


    that would make


    ke sense.


    <b>15 </b>