The living room was quiet, save for the occasional rustling of pages and the distant hum of the refrigerator.
The house, once filled with warmth and laughter, now felt empty. The lights were dim, and the air carried a certain heaviness, an unspoken sorrow that had settled in over the past month.
Ethan’s mother, Margaret, sat by the small table near the window, her fingers lightly tracing the rim of a porcelain teacup.
She was a beautiful woman, though the years had started to show in the fine lines around her deep-set eyes.
The light from the television flickered across her face, but she wasn’t watching — her gaze was fixed on the window, lost in thought.
It had been a long time since she had last seen her son. Too long.
On the large couch in the center of the room, Ethan’s father, Harold, lay with a book drooped over his face.
He had fallen asleep that way, his chest rising and falling steadily, his breathing slow and deep.
The book he had been reading wasn’t particularly interesting to him; he had picked it up simply to pass the time, though even that felt meaningless nowadays.
The house had once been lively, full of conversations, teasing, and the clatter of plates as dinner was served.
Now, it felt more like a place people existed in rather than lived in.
Margaret sighed and set down her tea. She turned to glance at her husband, but she already knew what she’d see — a man who had tried to move forward, who had tried to let go of the pain, but who still carried the weight of their son’s absence like a shadow over his shoulders.
A small tug at his sleeve stirred him from his slumber.
"Daddy..." A tiny voice spoke, barely above a whisper.
Harold groaned softly, adjusting the book on his face before lazily lifting it off.
His vision adjusted, and he looked down at the little girl standing beside him.
It was Julia, the youngest of the family. Her dark eyes shimmered with hope, her tiny hands clinging onto his shirt as she looked up at him.
"Can we visit Big Brother Ethan?" she asked, tilting her head slightly. Her voice was soft, innocent, completely unaware of the storm that lay between Ethan and the rest of the family.
Harold’s heart clenched. He reached out and gently ran his fingers through her hair.
"Julia..." he murmured, his voice rough from sleep.
Margaret glanced over from her chair, her lips pressing into a thin line. The tension was almost immediate, even without words.
Claire, who had been sitting in the corner of the room with her phone in hand, let out an audible sigh.
"He’s not going to pick up," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.
She had tried calling Ethan over and over for quite some time.
At first, it had been anger that drove her to keep calling, frustration at the way he had cut them out completely.
But then, anger had been replaced with sadness, and sadness had been replaced with something far worse — acceptance.
Ethan wasn’t coming back.
Not after everything that had happened.
Her fingers hovered over the dial button again, hesitating. She already knew what would happen. The call would ring, and then it would go to voicemail, just like it always did.
And yet, she still pressed it.
The phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
She sighed, about to lower the phone, but then —
Click.
The sound of a car engine rumbled through the speaker.
Claire’s breath caught in her throat.
"Ethan?" she said, almost not believing it.
His voice came through, firm but quick. "I’m coming over."
Then, the call ended.
Claire stared at her phone, her hands frozen in place. Her heart pounded against her chest.
Margaret had already stood up, her face a mix of shock and something she hadn’t felt in a long time —hope. Harold sat up straighter, his tired eyes sharpening as he looked at Claire.
"What did he say?" he asked, his voice carrying an edge of urgency.
Claire swallowed. "He said... he’s coming over."
A silence followed.
Emily’s face brightened instantly. "Big Brother’s coming home?"
No one answered right away.
Harold ran a hand down his face, exhaling heavily. Margaret pressed a hand against her chest, steadying her breathing. Claire gripped her phone tightly, her pulse still racing.
The house, which had been so quiet before, now buzzed with an uneasy energy.
For the first time in a long time, Ethan was coming home.
#####
Ethan’s phone buzzed beside him, the screen lighting up in the dim glow of the car’s dashboard.
His fingers, resting lightly against the steering wheel, drummed against the leather as he glanced at the caller ID.
This content is taken from fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm.
Claire.
He exhaled sharply, tilting his head back against the headrest for a second.
He hadn’t spoken to her in months — hadn’t spoken to any of them, really.
Not since the case had been dropped, not since he had walked free and realized that even though he had proven his innocence, some wounds didn’t heal with time.
Some things just… lingered.
The phone kept ringing, vibrating steadily against the center console.
Ethan let it ring out for a few more seconds before finally answering.
"Hello?"
There was a pause, barely half a second, but he could hear the sharp intake of breath on the other end, like Claire hadn’t expected him to actually pick up.
"Ethan?"
Her voice was cautious, hesitant.
Ethan smirked slightly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
He revved the Porsche’s engine on purpose, the powerful roar cutting through the night air. "I’m coming over," he said simply.
Then, without waiting for a response, he hung up.
He dropped his phone onto the passenger seat and gripped the wheel tighter, his foot pressing slightly against the accelerator as the Porsche glided effortlessly down the road.
Almost immediately, the phone began buzzing again. Claire was calling him back.
He glanced at it. Let it ring. Then, he ignored it.
She could wait. They all could.