THE WIFE HE FORGOT TO LOVE

1. Just never for me

Sophia's Pov:

The clock on the dining room wall struck ten, its sound echoing through the silent mansion.

Yet there was still no sign of my husband and my daughter.

I stared at my phone lying beside my untouched plate, the screen dark despite the countless calls I had made over the last hour. None of them had been answered.

But then again, this was no longer unusual.

What once happened occasionally had now become routine.

Late nights.

Missed calls.

Silence.

Every evening, I found myself waiting at the dinner table, hoping that maybe tonight Adrian would come home early, maybe tonight we would sit together like a family.

But hope had become a cruel habit.

The soft sound of footsteps pulled me from my thoughts.

James, our butler, stepped into the dining room with his usual composed expression, though his eyes held the same pity I had grown used to seeing from the staff.

"Mrs. Whitmore," he said gently, "shall I serve dinner, or would you prefer to wait for Mr. Whitmore and Miss Lily?"

For a second, I wanted to say I would wait.

I wanted to pretend that tonight would be different.

But I was too tired for false hope.

"Serve dinner, James," I said quietly.

He gave me a small nod before signaling Mary, the maid, who entered carrying the dishes.

Both of them wore that same careful expression around me-an unspoken sympathy that made my chest tighten.

I hated it.

I hated being looked at like a woman everyone pitied.

Once upon a time, I had imagined my life so differently.

I had imagined laughter at the dinner table, Adrian sitting beside me, Lily babbling happily between us.

Instead, I sat alone in a mansion far too large, eating dinner in silence while my husband spent another evening away.

The food tasted like nothing.

After forcing down a few bites, I pushed my plate away and made my way upstairs to our bedroom.

Our bedroom.

The thought almost made me laugh.

There was nothing "ours" about it anymore.

By the time I finished my skincare routine, it was nearly eleven.

The room was dim, illuminated only by the bedside lamp.

I climbed into bed and reached for my phone one last time.

No message from Adrian.

But there was one from Lily.

Mom, we are on our way home. It will get a bit late.

A faint smile touched my lips at her message.

At least my little girl remembered to tell me.

I typed back a short reply, then set the phone aside and lay back against the pillows.

The room was quiet.

Too quiet.

I closed my eyes, but sleep refused to come.

It never came easily on nights like these.

So I lay there, staring into the darkness, listening to the silence that had become my constant companion.

Minutes blurred into hours.

Then finally-

The sound of the main gate opening.

I sat up instantly.

A moment later came the sound of footsteps in the hallway, slow and steady, approaching the bedroom.

The door opened.

Adrian walked in, dressed in his dark suit, looking as composed as ever, with Lily sleeping peacefully in his arms.

Her tiny arms were wrapped around his neck, her cheek resting against his shoulder.

She was only five.

And in that moment, watching the tenderness with which he held her, my heart ached in the familiar way it always did.

Because Adrian Whitmore could be gentle.

He could be caring.

He could be everything a child needed.

Just never for me.