Please Come Back, My Love Chapter 85

Elena：POV

The Uber pulled up to a small, pale yellow house with white shutters and a neatly trimmed lawn. **Palm trees.** Hibiscus flowers blooming along the fence. The kind of place that looked peaceful. Safe.

*Nothing like Manhattan.*

I paid the driver and dragged my suitcase up the short walkway. My wrists ached under the bandages. Everything ached.

Before I could knock, the door swung open.

"Elena!"

**Mom.**

My breath caught.

She looked—*wrong*.

Her face was thinner. Cheekbones too sharp. Eyes sunken, with dark circles carved underneath like bruises. Her skin had a grayish tint, like she hadn't seen real sunlight in months.

And she was *small*. Smaller than I remembered.

*What the hell happened to you?*

But she was smiling. Wide. Bright. Pulling me into a hug before I could process anything.

"Oh, sweetheart, I'm so glad you're here," she said, voice warm and familiar. "Come in, come in. You must be exhausted."

I let her pull me inside. The house smelled like lavender and lemon cleaner, with something else underneath—something medicinal that made my stomach clench. Simple furniture. Cream-colored couch. A few framed photos on the mantel—me as a kid, her in her housekeeper uniform at the Connecticut estate, Arthur Sterling's stern portrait.

*A whole life distilled into one small living room.*

"Sit, sit." She guided me to the couch, taking my suitcase. "I made iced tea. And there's key lime pie in the fridge—your favorite, remember?"

I sat. Stared at her.

She was moving too fast. Talking too much. Fussing over me like I was ten years old again.

*She's trying too hard.*

"Mom," I said quietly. "You look—"

"Oh, I know, I know." She waved a hand dismissively, disappearing into the kitchen. "I've lost a little weight. The heat here, you know? And I've been so busy setting up the house. Haven't had much appetite."

Bullshit.

She came back with two glasses of iced tea, ice cubes clinking. Sat down beside me.

"Now." She turned to face me, hands folded in her lap. "Tell me everything. How's work? How's—" She hesitated. "How's Julian?"

I looked down at my hands. The bandages on my wrists were hidden under my sleeves, but I could feel them. Tight. Itchy.

*Where do I even start?*

"We got divorced," I said flatly.

The silence was immediate. Heavy.

I looked up. Mom's face had gone very still.

"Last week," I continued. My voice sounded hollow. "We went to the courthouse. Signed the papers. It's done."

She didn't move. Just stared at me.

"Elena—"

"And I lost the baby." The words came out before I could stop them. Sharp. Blunt. "I was sixteen weeks pregnant. Someone—" My throat closed up. I forced the words out anyway. "Someone attacked me. Beat me. I was bleeding, and I couldn't—I couldn't—"

*Stop. Stop talking.*

But I couldn't.

"I tried to save him," I whispered. My hands were shaking. "I tried so hard, Mom. But he—he's gone. And then I—"

I pulled up my sleeves.

Showed her the bandages.

Her face crumpled.

"Oh, baby," she breathed. "Oh, my baby."

She pulled me into her arms, and I collapsed against her fragile frame. The tears I'd been holding back for days finally broke through—ugly, wrenching sobs that seemed to tear something loose inside my chest.

Gasping. Choking on air.

She held me. Rocked me. Stroked my hair.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so, so sorry."

I don't know how long we sat there. Time blurred. Eventually, the sobs faded into hiccups, then silence.

I pulled back, wiping my face with my sleeve.

"I couldn't breathe in that house," I said, voice hoarse. "Every room—every corner—I kept seeing him. The nursery. The crib we picked out. I kept thinking about what he would've looked like. And Julian—" 

I laughed bitterly. "Julian kept apologizing. Kept trying to *fix* things. But that didn't help at all."

Mom's hands cupped my face. Her eyes were red, shining with tears.

"You're safe now," she said firmly. "You're here. With me. And you can stay as long as you need. Forever, if you want."

I nodded. Swallowed hard.

"I just—I needed to get away. From New York. From him. From everything."

"Of course you did." She brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. "And you don't have to go back. Not ever, if you don't want to."

*Don't want to.*

The thought settled over me like a blanket. Soft. Comforting.

*I don't have to go back.*

"Stay here," Mom said. "Rest. Heal. We'll figure everything out together."

I managed a weak smile. "Thanks, Mom."

She smiled back. But it didn't reach her eyes.

And that's when I really looked at her.

The way her hand trembled when she reached for her iced tea. The way her collarbone jutted out sharply against her blouse. The faint yellow tint in the whites of her eyes.

*Something's wrong.*

"Mom," I said slowly. "Are you okay?"

"Of course." She took a sip of tea. Too casual. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You look—" I hesitated. "You look sick."

"Oh, that." She waved a hand. "I told you, I've just lost a little weight. And I haven't been sleeping well. The bed here is different from the one at the estate. Takes some getting used to."

I stared at her.

"What else?" I pressed.

"Nothing." She stood up, smoothing her skirt. "Just a little indigestion. The doctor said it's acid reflux. Gave me some pills. Nothing serious."

"You're seeing a doctor?"

"Just routine checkups." She headed toward the kitchen. "Let me get you some pie. You're too thin, Elena. When was the last time you ate a proper meal?"

I followed her. Grabbed her wrist gently.

She flinched.

*Fuck.*

"Mom," I said quietly. "Tell me the truth."

She looked at me. And for a moment, her mask slipped.

I saw fear. Pain. Exhaustion.

Then it was gone.

"I'm fine, sweetheart," she said softly. "Really. Just getting old. That's all."

*You're lying.*

But I didn't push. Not now. Not when she was clearly trying so hard to hold it together for me.

*I'll find out eventually. How long has she been like this? How long has she been suffering alone while I was playing house in Manhattan?*

She turned back to the fridge, pulling out the pie. Cut me a generous slice.

We sat at the small kitchen table, eating in silence. The pie was good. Sweet. Tangy. But it tasted like dust in my mouth.

*Everything tastes like dust now.*

After a while, she reached across the table and squeezed my hand.

"I'm glad you're here," she said.

"Me too."

And I meant it.

---

Later that night, I lay in the guest bedroom—*my* bedroom now, I guess—staring at the ceiling. The room was simple. White walls. Floral curtains. A single bed with a patchwork quilt.

*So different from the penthouse.*

No marble floors. No floor-to-ceiling windows. No Julian.

*No baby.*

I pressed my hand against my stomach. Flat. Empty.

*Gone.*

A soft knock at the door.

"Come in," I said.

Mom appeared, carrying a glass of water and a small bottle of pills.

"For sleeping," she said, setting them on the nightstand. "In case you need them."

I sat up. Looked at her.

Really looked.

The way she leaned against the doorframe. Like standing took effort. The way her breathing sounded just a little too shallow.

*She's dying.*

The thought hit me like a punch to the gut.

*No. No, she can't be.*

"Mom," I said. My voice cracked.

She smiled. Tired. Sad.

"Get some rest, sweetheart."

I stood up. Crossed the room. Wrapped my arms around her.

She stiffened. Then melted into the hug.

I held her tight. Too tight. Like if I let go, she'd disappear.

"Mom," I whispered into her shoulder. "You're all I have left now. You have to stay with me for a long, long time, okay? You have to. Because I want to be here for you. I *need* to be here for you. "

My voice broke completely. "I can't lose you too, Mom."