Becoming Mrs DeLuca novel Chapter 93

**Through Shadows We Painted Our Forever by Erynn Vel Coren**

As I stood at the threshold of the room that had once been my sanctuary, a wave of disorientation washed over me. This space, once filled with the echoes of my childhood laughter and dreams, now felt foreign, like a ghost of my past that I no longer recognized.

The familiar sight greeted me: the soft lavender curtains swaying gently with the breeze, the framed ballet poster hanging proudly on the wall, and the little stack of books that I had carelessly left behind when I moved out. Yet, despite these comforting reminders, it felt as though I was intruding upon a life that had long since slipped through my fingers.

My mother had encroached upon my space, her belongings spilling into the corners, leaving little room for my own thoughts. The clutter mirrored the chaos in my mind, a reminder of the life I had tried to escape.

I perched on the edge of the bed, drawing my knees up to my chest, cocooned in one of my old high school sweatshirts. The fabric still held the faint scent of detergent, mingling with the bittersweet memories of my teenage years. It was a stark contrast to the warm cedar aroma of Adrian’s shirts that lingered in my memory, a scent that felt like a bruise I couldn’t help but press against.

Gazing out the window, I was met with the bright sunlight filtering through the trees, the cheerful chirping of birds, and the mundane rhythm of a normal neighborhood. A normal life. Yet, within me, there was an unsettling void—a hollow ache that had settled in my chest the moment I stepped away from Adrian’s house and closed the door behind me. I longed for my children, and the thought of how bewildered they must be gnawed at my insides. I could still picture Stefan’s little face, his innocent eyes wide with confusion, asking when I would return from my trip that morning as I had said my goodbyes to him and Sofia.

Since then, I had not shed a single tear. Sleep eluded me, and it felt as though every part of me had been frozen in a state of limbo.

The doorknob clicked, and I rolled my eyes, a familiar sense of dread washing over me.

Oh God. Not again.

“Valentina.”

My mother’s voice sliced through the air, already laced with irritation, as if she had been rehearsing her words in the silence of the hallway.

Before I could respond, she swung the door open with an air of authority, stepping inside as though she owned the place—which, in a way, she did.

Her gaze swept over the room, avoiding my face entirely, as if she were searching for evidence of my supposed transgressions.

“You still won’t talk.”

It wasn’t a question; it was an accusation, a belief firmly rooted in her mind that I must have driven Adrian away, that I had fled his home in disgrace.

I exhaled, the sound barely escaping my lips. “Mom, please—”

“No. I will not ‘please.’ Not when my daughter suddenly appears on the doorstep without her husband, without her children, and with no explanation!” She crossed her arms, her earrings swinging like pendulums, marking the rhythm of her indignation. “Do you have any idea how this looks?”

I closed my eyes, the weight of her words pressing down on me. “Honestly, I do not care how it looks.”

“Well, you should.” She stepped closer, her anger radiating like heat in the room. “People are talking, Valentina. They’re saying you abandoned your marriage. That you left your children behind. Do you want them thinking you’re a bad mother?”

Her words struck a nerve, and I flinched, feeling the sting of her judgment. No matter how old I grew, her words had the power to cut deep.

“I didn’t abandon my kids,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

“You’re not with them right now, are you?” Her tone was merciless, relentless. “And you won’t tell us why. So what else are people supposed to think? Because the way it looks—”

“Mom.” My voice cracked under the pressure. “Please just stop.”

But she didn’t stop. She never did.

“You bring shame upon us when you act like this. Shame, Valentina. Do you know how humiliating it is when people ask me where your husband is? When they say, ‘Oh, we saw Adrian at the gala last week alone; is everything all right?'”

“I don’t care what people think,” I choked out, the words tasting bitter in my mouth.

“Well, I do!” she shot back, her voice rising with frustration. “We raised you better than this. You’re a wife. You have responsibilities. You don’t just run off like—”

“That’s enough.”

The room fell into a heavy silence.

My father stood at the doorway, his hand resting on the frame, his gaze steady yet calm.

Instantly, my mother’s mouth snapped shut, the fire in her eyes dimming.

“Isabelle,” he said softly, yet firmly, “leave her. Now.”

She opened her mouth to protest but seemed to reconsider. With a huff, she turned on her heel, brushing past him, muttering under her breath as she exited down the hall.

As the door clicked shut behind her, it felt as though a weight had been lifted, and the air in the room became lighter.

My father stepped inside, moving with a deliberate slowness, and settled into the chair beside the window.

For a time, he remained silent, studying me with an expression that was the complete opposite of my mother’s. I was not a disappointment to him; I was not a burden.

“Your mother…” he sighed, rubbing his temple as if trying to ease a headache. “She panics when she doesn’t understand things. Loudly.”

I let out a weak laugh, the sound surprising even me. “That’s one way to put it.”

He offered me a gentle smile, but it quickly faded, replaced by concern.

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