Chapter 27

Kayna’s POV

The three days at home blurred into something soft and fragile, a fleeting calm I almost wished I could bottle.

My mother moved more easily now, though she still leaned on Mateo for balance when she got up. She was eating, smiling, insisting she could fold laundry and cook again. Of course, Mateo wouldn’t let her, barking orders like a drill sergeant whenever she tried. It made me laugh, but deep down, I knew he was terrified of losing her. We both were.

The morning of my departure came faster than I expected. I wish I could stay with them longer but these bills won’t pay themselves. I sat at the kitchen table, staring at the half-packed suitcase by the door. My mother poured herself tea, her hands steadier than they had been a week ago, while Mateo hovered with the look of someone trying not to say what was on his mind.

“You’re quiet this morning,” my mom said softly, looking at me over the rim of her mug.

“I just…” I exhaled. “I hate leaving. That’s all.”

Mateo sat opposite me, arms crossed. “You don’t have to rush back, Kayna. Ava and your boss—they’ll survive without you a little longer.”

I shook my head. “It’s not just about them. It’s about me, too. I can’t just sit here pretending the rest of my life isn’t waiting for me. I need to work, I need to… breathe again in my own space. I just got hired at this job and I don’t want to come off as incompetent or someone with personal issues that could affect their productivity at the company.”

They both fell silent. My mother reached for my hand across the table, her eyes glistening. “You’ve grown into such a strong woman. I am really proud of the woman I’m seeing in front of me. Your father would be proud.”

The words hit me harder than I expected. My throat tightened, and I forced a smile. “Thanks, Mom.”

But inside, my father’s letters burned like a secret fire in my suitcase.

It was finally almost time to say goodbye.

When it was time to go, I hugged my mom tighter than I had in years. She smelled faintly of lavender and laundry soap, the smell of home.

“Promise me you’ll take care of yourself,” she whispered against my hair.

“I promise,” I said. “And you—no skipping your meds, no pretending you’re stronger than you are. If you feel any type of way, let me know immediately. I’m just a phone call away.”

She laughed lightly. “Bossy. Just like your father.”

The mention of him sent a shiver down my spine, but I kept my smile.

Mateo carried my suitcase to the cab waiting outside, slamming the trunk shut harder than necessary. His arms crossed again, and he gave me that baby brother glare that said a thousand things at once: be careful, don’t let anyone hurt you, don’t forget to take care of yourself.

“Call when you land,” he said.

“I will.”

“And don’t drown in work. You do that thing where you forget to eat.”

I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Dad.”

He cracked a reluctant smile and kissed my forehead. “Safe trip, sis.”

…..

The drive to the airport felt surreal. Boston’s streets slipped past the window, each corner heavy with memories: school runs, grocery trips, evenings walking home with my dad before everything fell apart.

As the cab pulled onto the highway, I pressed my forehead against the glass, letting the hum of the engine lull me into thought. I’d come to Boston worried, frightened, with no idea if my mother would even pull through. Now I was leaving with her alive, stronger, and yet… still heavier somehow.

Because now I carried the letters. Letters my father used as a means of conversing with the family he left behind.

I thought of the envelope addressed to me, hidden at the bottom of my suitcase. My stomach twisted. Soon, when I was settled back in New York, I would open it. I would know what my father had wanted me to know.

And part of me wasn’t sure I was ready.

The flight touched down at LaGuardia mid-afternoon. I stepped off the plane into the buzzing terminal, the familiar chaos of New York wrapping around me like a storm I both dreaded and missed.

Dragging my suitcase behind me, I caught a cab and gave him my address. The ride back through the city was noisy, horns blaring, pedestrians darting across streets as if they owned them. Manhattan looked alive, unapologetically alive, and I felt myself slipping back into its rhythm.

When the cab stopped outside my apartment, I paid the driver and hauled my bags inside. The moment the door clicked shut behind me, I let out a long, shaky breath.

Home.

It wasn’t the big house in Boston. It wasn’t warm with family chatter. But it was mine. The familiarity of the small living room, the half-finished book on the coffee table, the faint lavender scent from the candle I’d left behind—it wrapped around me like a blanket.

I dropped my suitcase by the door and went straight to the couch, collapsing with a sigh. For a moment, I let myself just sit there, listening to the hum of the fridge and the faint traffic outside.

Then my phone buzzed.

Ava’s name lit up the screen. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed her voice at work until I picked up.

“Kayna!” she squealed, her words spilling out in a rush. “Please tell me you’re back. Damian’s been snapping at everyone, and honestly, the office feels like it’s about to implode without you here.”

I laughed, the sound easing something in my chest. “I landed an hour ago. Just got home.”

“Thank God. You’re resuming tomorrow, right?”

“Yes. Bright and early.”

There was a pause, then Ava’s voice softened. “How’s your mom?”

Relief flooded me at the thought. “Better. She’s stronger. The doctors say she’ll be fine as long as she rests.”

“That’s amazing, Kayna. I’m so happy for you.”

Her sincerity warmed me. We talked for a few more minutes, about the office chaos, about little things I’d missed. By the end of the call, I felt grounded again, like I had one foot firmly back in my New York life.

When I hung up, I leaned back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow, I’d walk back into Marshall & Co., back into Damian’s orbit, back into the world that demanded so much of me.

And somewhere between work and responsibility, I would have to find the courage to open the letters.

I spent the evening unpacking, folding clothes into drawers, and stacking my mother’s discharge papers neatly in a folder. The letters, still sealed in their envelopes, I tucked into the drawer of my nightstand. Close enough to touch. Close enough to tempt.

I stood there staring at the drawer for a long time, my hand hovering over the handle. But just like before, I couldn’t bring myself to open it. Not yet.

Instead, I made dinner. Pesto pasta with too much garlic and chicken. I lit a candle, and curled up with my laptop to catch up on missed work emails. My inbox was overflowing, but for the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel buried. I felt… capable.

When I finally crawled into bed, the city lights filtered through the blinds, casting silver patterns on the walls. I closed my eyes, and for the first time since Boston, I let myself believe things might steady.

Tomorrow, I would step back into the office. Back into Damian’s world. Back into the chaos.

And the letters… they would wait.