Chapter 178 Whose Car is That in the Driveway?

Chapter 178 Whose Car is That in the Driveway?
Jane's POV

After our conversation the night before, David and I decided we couldn't keep running from the past. Despite my nervousness, I knew it was time to face whatever secrets lay buried in my childhood home.

The drive to my old neighborhood felt surreal. As we pulled up to the familiar street, my heart began racing. The house looked exactly the same—a modest two-story colonial with white shutters and a wraparound porch. The garden my mother had lovingly tended was still there, though different flowers now bloomed in the beds.

"You okay?" David asked, squeezing my hand.

I nodded, though my palms were sweaty. "It's just... strange being back."

As we approached the front door, I heard the sound of laughter coming from the backyard. We walked around the side of the house, and I froze at what I saw.

Linda was standing on the back porch, watching Stephen run around on the lawn with a soccer ball. He looked so small and carefree, his blonde hair catching the sunlight as he kicked the ball with pure joy. Linda's face was soft as she watched him, a gentle maternal smile playing at her lips—the kind of look I remembered my own mother giving me.

Then she saw us.

The warmth drained from her expression instantly, her body going rigid. Stephen noticed her change in demeanor and turned to see what had caught her attention. When his eyes met mine, his little face scrunched up with embarrassment, and he dropped his head.

"Oh," I said awkwardly, raising my hand in a small wave. "Hi. I just... I came to see the house."

Stephen shuffled his feet in the grass. "Jane..." he said quietly, his voice small. He scratched his head with one hand while clutching his soccer ball with the other. "Thank you. For last time at the store. I was... I was really mean. I'm sorry."

My heart clenched. He was just a little boy who'd been parroting words he probably didn't even understand. "It's okay, Stephen," I said gently. "You don't need to worry about it."

Linda clearly knew about the grocery store incident—her lack of surprise made that obvious. But she seemed unable to bring herself to acknowledge it directly. Instead, she crossed her arms and asked stiffly, "Did you want to see your old room?"

I nodded, feeling the familiar chill that always seemed to surround Linda. She'd never been cruel to me, not in the way Thomas had become, but her cold indifference had been its own kind of wound. She'd watched my father's transformation into a bitter, angry man and had never once intervened on my behalf.

David and I followed her into the house. The interior was largely unchanged—same wallpaper in the hallway, same creaky third step on the staircase. But there were new family photos on the walls now, pictures of Linda, Thomas, and Stephen looking like the happy family I'd once thought we were.

My old room was at the end of the hall. Linda opened the door and stepped aside, and I gasped.

Everything was exactly as I'd left it six years ago. My twin bed with the faded purple comforter, my desk where I'd done homework while listening to my parents chat in the kitchen below, even my old stuffed rabbit sitting on the pillow. It was like a museum exhibit of my childhood.

"Why..." I started, then stopped. I couldn't understand why Thomas had preserved my room like this, like a shrine. It didn't fit with the man who'd called me worthless, who'd made me feel like a burden he couldn't wait to be rid of.

But I refused to read love into this gesture. He didn't deserve that benefit of the doubt. Not after everything.

"I'd like to see my mother's room," I said, turning back to Linda.

Her expression hardened further. "That's Thomas's and my room now. You can't just go in there."

"I just want to see if any of my mother's things are still there," I explained. "When I left, I was in such a hurry that I didn't take everything I might have wanted."

Linda's mouth twisted into something that might have been a smirk. There was contempt in her eyes, a disdain I'd seen many times before but never understood.

"She didn't leave much worth keeping. But if you're looking for answers..." She paused, seeming to choose her words carefully. "Some of her things ended up in your room. Maybe if you look hard enough, you'll find what you're really searching for."

There was something in her tone—a hint of malice, like she knew something I didn't. Before I could ask what she meant, we heard the front door slam.

"I'm home!" a familiar male voice called out.

My blood turned to ice. Thomas was back.

David immediately stepped closer to me, his hand finding mine. We'd just been here to look around, to try to understand the past. But given yesterday's confrontation, our presence here would look like provocation.

"Shit," I whispered, panic rising in my chest.

"It's okay," David murmured, but I could see the tension in his jaw. "We'll handle this."

Linda looked between us with what might have been satisfaction. "You might want to explain why you're here," she said coolly, "before he sees you."

Little Stephen appeared in the doorway, his soccer ball still clutched in his arms and his face pale with worry. "Maybe you should go out the back," he whispered urgently. "Daddy's been really angry since yesterday. He threw his coffee mug this morning."

But it was too late. Heavy footsteps were already climbing the stairs, and I could hear Thomas calling out, "Linda? Whose car is that in the driveway?"