When Family Became a Place I Couldn’t Return To novel Chapter 123

After that, all he could remember were scattered memories, little flashes of Nelly always there beside him. He saw her the day their son died, sobbing so hard it felt like she might break apart. He saw the way she used to look at him, her eyes once blazing with warmth, turning colder and colder until they were just ice. That last dream left him rattled. He woke up, heart pounding, afraid in a way he hadn’t been in years.

Brody pushed himself upright. His body still ached, weak and sore, but the fever had faded and his mind finally felt clear. The air in the house was thick with the smell of oats and something savory simmering. Soup, maybe. His stomach rumbled. He got up slowly and made his way to the kitchen.

He opened the fridge and stared for a second. It was packed to the brim. There were neatly sorted boxes of fresh fruit, rows of drinks and yogurts, snacks, pastries, vegetables trimmed and ready to go. Everything organized, every shelf spotless. With Marian around to help, Brody always figured Nelly could just let the housekeeper handle things. But after all these years, she’d only gotten better at running a home.

He remembered something she’d said once. Doing it herself made it feel like home. That was back when Finn was still alive, and even with two kids to juggle, Nelly would cook dinner for him every night. He always came home late, barely glancing at the food she’d made. Marian used to say Nelly worked so hard for him, he ought to at least try a bite. But Brody was always thinking about work. He’d shrug it off, tell her not to go out of her way. Nelly never got mad. Marian, feeling bad, would say it was her fault and promise not to let Nelly cook again. But Nelly just said she wanted to do it herself. She wanted to cook for him, even if he didn’t care.

He wondered when she’d stopped going out of her way. Was it after their son died?

“You’re up. Feeling better?” Nelly’s voice broke through his thoughts. Brody was still standing in front of the fridge, lost in his head. She’d just showered, her hair damp, wearing soft pajamas and smelling like something clean and floral. He shut the fridge and nodded, glancing at her.

She had on a pale yellow silk nightgown, a loose beige sweater over it. Even in baggy clothes, she still had that delicate shape, all curves and quiet grace. Nelly checked the soup bubbling on the stove, tasted it, and talked to herself. “Not bad,” she said, approvingly.

“What are you making?” Brody asked, almost without thinking, moving closer.

He stood next to her, his height blocking the light. She glanced up. “Isn’t it obvious? Soup.”

“Just broth?” He frowned.

“Yeah. It’s late. Broth is good for you. And mine’s really tasty. I bought some sides, too.” She paused, maybe thinking he was about to complain. “But you don’t have to eat it.”

“This is my house. I can make what I want, right?”

Nelly hadn’t realized he was standing so close. When she turned, her legs brushed his. She almost bumped into him, only stopping short at his hips. She stiffened, instinctively leaning back, but the stove and bubbling pot were right behind her. Brody’s hand landed on her waist, steady and firm, pulling her away from the danger.

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