< Chapter 122


    <b>Chapter </b><b>122 </b>


    (ir’s POV)


    +25 Points


    James and I drive in silence, the quiet in the car heavy with a guilt we both share but haven’t yet named.


    The moment I round the corner onto Maple Street, my breath hitches. My foot instinctively finds the brake pedal, slowing the car to a crawl.


    “James,” I whisper, the name catching in my throat.


    He doesn’t ask what I mean. He is staring, too.


    The house. <i>Our </i><i>house</i>, is unrecognizable.


    The warm, buttery yellow paint I chose after college is gone, scraped down to the bare, bleached wood.


    The beautiful, curved wrought–iron railing Scarlett’s father meticulously installed is ripped out, reced by sharp, modern steel.


    But the real devastation is the frontwn.


    The old oak tree, the one that used to anchor the tire swing and shade the porch on hot afternoons, is nothing but a stump, a fresh, raw wound in the earth. The colorful flower beds James and I tend every spring–gone, paved over with gray concrete.


    It looks less like a home and more like an autopsy table. Cold. Exposed. Gutted.


    I park half a block away and we walk up the street, a sense of dread thickening with every step. I try the front door out of habit. Locked.


    The key still fits in the lock, though, which somehow makes everything worse. Like the universe is ying a cruel joke on us–letting us into a house that’s no longer ours.


    “ir, I don’t think we should be here,” James whispers behind me as I push open the front


    door.


    But I can’t stop myself. I need to see what’s left. Need to know if there’s anything of Scarlett that we can save.


    The smell hits me first. Fresh paint and cleaning chemicals. The walls are stark white, not the warm cream color I chose when Scarlett was five and wanted her bedroom to match the living room.


    <


    “Oh my God.”


    :


    +25 Points


    My voice echoes in the empty space where our dining table used to sit. Where we ate birthday cakes and Christmas dinners and a thousand ordinary meals that felt extraordinary because we were family.


    The beautiful original hardwood floors, the ones I’ve worried about scratching, are covered in stic sheeting and construction debris. The wall between the living room and the kitchen, the one I use to tack up Scarlett’s finger–paintings–gone.


    There’s an enormous, gaping hole where it used to be. The entireyout of the main floor is unrecognizable.


    Even the built–in bookshelves where I kept Scarlett’s school photos and art projects have been torn out, leaving ugly scars in its ce.


    “They gutted everything,” James says, his voice hollow. “Everything.”


    I walk through the rooms like a ghost, looking for some trace of the life we built here. Scarlett’s first steps in the hallway. Her height marks on the kitchen doorframe. The spot where she spilled grape juice when she was seven and we could never quite get the stain out.


    All of it. Gone.


    “The basement,” I say suddenly. “Maybe they didn’t touch the basement.”


    But when we go downstairs, it’s been turned into some kind of media room. Big screen TV, leather furniture, mini bar. No trace of the y area we set up for Scarlett, the dollhouse James built with his own hands, the dress–up box filled with old Halloween costumes.


    “ir.” James touches my shoulder gently. “We should go.”


    I pull away from him, desperate. “There has to be something. Something they missed.”


    But there isn’t. Every closet, every corner, every inch of this house has been scrubbed clean of our daughter’s existence. Like she never existed.


    My knees buckle. I sink onto a splintered two–by–four, the cold certainty of our failure settling deep into my bones.


    “We should have stopped it,” I whisper, shame washing over me in suffocating waves. “We should have never listened to Virginia. We should have had her reim the house the moment we found out she sold it.”


    James kneels beside me, his face drawn and pale. “I know, ir. I know. I thought… I thought we needed to support her, to show her she matters to us more than a mere house…” He takes


    < Chapter 122


    <b>+25 </b>Points


    my hand, his grip tight, searching for absolution that neither of us can give. “We have to go to Scarlett. We have to make this right. We have to apologize and beg her forgiveness.”


    “But will she even let us?” I ask, looking around at the ruins. “The house is gone. Her trust is gone. What’s left?” <fn64e3> Th?s chapter is updated by FindN()vel</fn64e3>


    “Us,” James says simply. “We’re still here. We may be lousy parents, but we’re the only ones she’s got. She has to know she’ll always be our daughter, no matter what.”


    We leave the gutted shell of our home, each step heavy with shame. The drive to Sunrise Bakes is agonizing. My palms are sweating, my stomach churning. What if she refuses to see us, or chases us away?


    Or worse, what if she just looks at us with that cold, dead expression she wore thest time we spoke?


    We walk into the bakery, the air instantly warm and sweet with the aroma of cinnamon and yeast. The smell isforting, familiar, yet the tension immediately coils around my chest.


    Scarlett is behind the counter, focused, serious, her sleeves rolled up, her hair pulled back into a messy bun. She looks tired, but strong. A survivor, just like I expected.


    The carefree girl who used to dance around our kitchen is gone, reced by a guarded woman who watches us approach like we’re strangers.


    Which, I guess, we are now.


    “ir. James.” Her voice is polite but cold. Professional. The way she might greet customers she doesn’t like but has to serve anyway.


    “Scarlett.” My voice breaks on her name. “Habibti, we need to talk.”


    “I’m working.”


    “Please. Just five minutes.‘


    She nces around the empty bakery, then back at us. “Fine. Five minutes.”


    That’s when I see her. Lily.


    Our beautiful granddaughter, sitting at a small, child–sized table in the corner, carefully decorating a mini–cupcake with rainbow sprinkles. The moment her head lifts, her face lighting up with recognition, the guilt eases a fraction, reced by a fierce, maternal love. “Grandma! Grandpa!” She shrieks, her voice a pure bell of joy.


    She starts to slide off the chair, ready to rush over, her arms outstretched. It is a reaction so


    “I know, baby. But we’ve talked about this. They’re not our family anymore. We have a new family.”


    The words hit me like a physical blow. James makes a sound like he’s been punched in the stomach.


    “Scarlett, please,” I whisper. “Don’t punish Lily for our mistakes.”


    “I’m not punishing her. I’m protecting my daughter from sinking into your cheap, fickle affection.”


    Scarlett’s eyes, usually so soft when she looks at Lily, are now cold and hard as she stares at us. Her expression,pletely devoid of warmth.


    “Virginia had good intentions. She was helping a poor family. She had no idea they would destroy everything.”


    “I don’t care about Virginia’s affairs. Just tell me. What are you two doing here?” she asks, not as a question, but as an usation. Her arms cross over her chest in a defensive gesture.


    “Habibti-”


    “Don’t call me that.” Her voice is sharp, cutting. “You don’t get to use pet names anymore. You don’t get to pretend you care.”


    “We do care!” James steps forward, his hands outstretched. “Scarlett, you’re our daughter. Nothing will ever change that.”


    “You’re wrong.<i>” </i>She chuckles, and the sound makes my heart sink. “I was never your daughter.”


    M