Chapter 5 #2
Even if this place feels a little lonelier with no one else around, I know I’ll be okay. Today was another small victory, another small step forward. And I’ll be damned if I start looking back now.
It’s Saturday night, and I’m sitting up in bed with my laptop, browsing through a selection of quality Australian timber for the furniture I plan to build.
I’ve already exceeded my budget of five grand, and at this rate, I’m starting to think I might have to sell my Mercedes just to cover the expenses.
I’ve chosen to go with the solid Tasmanian oak for the coffee and dining tables, and Victorian ash timber for the TV unit and shelves due to their strength, durability and modern appearance.
I’m even planning to build a desk for the second room, which I’ve decided will become my home office.
I haven’t settled on the designs or decided on a particular style just yet, but I’ve gathered enough ideas from online to help me get started.
Seconds after completing the checkout, the familiar ding of an incoming email breaks the quiet, signalling that my invoice has been received.
But as my cursor hovers to open it, a different message catches my eye: an email from Lucia, sent exactly a week after I moved out from her place, five months ago.
I never replied, and she never reached out again.
Yet it wasn’t long after receiving that message that I truly began to spiral.
I don’t know what compels me to open it again, but in the next moment, I’m clicking on her email, and my screen instantly lights up with her message.
From: Lucia_Cardillo@
To: KN.Grant@
Date: 25 February, 2024 at 5:48 pm.
Subject: Are you happy now?
Kaden,
I’m sorry this is a bit long, and I know you’ll probably either ignore it or read it without caring enough to respond. But regardless of what you choose to do, I didn’t want to leave without first letting you know what’s been happening since the day you walked out on us.
I took your advice and called Adrian. As I expected, he denied everything, and refused to acknowledge that Arianna is his. He rejected the idea of a DNA test and, in the end, shunned me, and called me a ‘classless whore’ and ‘homewrecker’ before hanging up and blocking me.
I found out a few weeks later from a colleague that he had suddenly resigned from the school and moved to an undisclosed location with his family.
I didn’t care enough to try and find him or contact him again.
In all honesty, I never felt anything deep enough for me to want to chase him—not in the same way I felt about you.
And I did care about you, Kaden. I still do, even knowing that the whole time, you were in love with someone else.
I don’t think I’ll ever stop caring about you.
I’m now left to raise Ari on my own. My family refuses to help once they discovered Ari’s father was a married man. I can’t afford to stay in Sydney, not while raising a child alone. So now, I have no choice but to leave. And I’m thinking maybe, to a smaller town.
I’m not reaching out to you to ask for sympathy, or even support.
I know you don’t owe me anything. But I thought you’d be happy to know that I’ve officially hit rock bottom.
I don’t know what I’m going to do from here onwards.
This will probably be the last you hear from me.
But if you ever find it in your heart to forgive me one day, or if you ever just want to know how Ari is doing, I’ll be here. Whenever you want to talk.
I wish you well Kaden, and I’m truly sorry. For everything.
Yours truly,
Lucy x
Even after reading it a fourth time, it still hurts to know that in the midst of all the chaos, Ari is the one caught in the middle.
There were so many times I wanted to reply, just to know how she was, and maybe to somehow still be part of her life.
But seeing her would only remind me of Lucia’s betrayal, and the fact that I am not her real father.
I owe it to myself to let go and finally move forward, which was the only reason I decided not to respond.
I click out of my email and open a new tab. After logging into Facebook, I immediately start searching for Adrian Turner. I once swore that I’d never look into Lucia’s lover again. He was never worth the time or effort to begin with.
But now, I find myself wanting to know more about the man who could just so easily abandon his own flesh and blood while continuing to deceive his family.
Typing his name into the search bar, I’m instantly met with a flood of Adrian Turners.
Not wanting to go through each and every one of them, I try his wife’s name next, the one I remember from the file my private investigator handed me months ago.
I have no image to anchor her to. Bryan had only given me photos of Adrian and Lucia together, so I’m not even sure what I’m looking for.
With a steady breath, I press the search button and let the page load.
Seconds later, several Hope Turner profiles appear on my screen. I scroll through them slowly, studying each one carefully. Some display nothing but pets, children, or animated characters. But then one photo makes me pause.
It’s a picture of a couple. A tall, lean man with dark hair stands behind a woman, his face hidden in the curve of her neck; one arm draped protectively over her chest. The woman, of average height and gracefully curvy, has the most striking shade of auburn hair—long waves that spill almost to her waist. She’s facing the camera with her eyes closed, smiling as though his touch is something that soothes and comforts her.
And then I see it—the gold band glinting on her ring finger as her hand rests affectionately on his forearm. She’s married, presumably to the man standing behind her.
Something urges me to click on her profile.
As soon as it loads, I scroll down her page and notice that only a few things are made public—quotes, random photos of plants and scenic places, nothing that reveals much about her personal life.
It isn’t until I click on one of the plant photos and open the comments that I find more than half a dozen people discussing that one particular plant, and I can’t help thinking, who on earth fusses over plants this much? Clearly this woman does.
My thumb keeps scrolling through the comments until one suddenly makes me stop. It’s from a man going by the name “Mr T.”—complete with a profile picture of the actual Mr. T. His comment reads:
‘Honey, I think if you bring home one more plant, our house will start to rival the jungle.’
Curious, I click on his picture, and it immediately opens his profile.
Lo and behold, he barely has any public photos either.
Yet the last one is all it takes for me to know exactly who this person is.
The image is old, showing a man in a black wetsuit standing on a beach, a surfboard propped beside him.
He looks younger, probably in his early twenties, but there’s no mistaking it—I’d recognise those intense blue eyes, dark hair, and eyebrows anywhere.
I’ve just come across Adrian Turner’s profile.
Now that I’ve found him, and his wife, I can’t help but wonder: what would happen if, one day, he woke up and his whole world had been ripped away? If his picture-perfect life were destroyed in an instant?
I know I’ll probably never find out the answer. But part of me can’t help thinking… I’d damn well love to find out.