CHAPTER 175: CHAPTER 175- MOMMY’S HOME NOW

The car pulled smoothly into the driveway of a grand, luxurious villa.

Janice looked up at the place that had once been their home. Her heart squeezed, and her vision blurred once more.

Charles got out of the car swiftly, without even glancing at her face. He pretended not to notice the sorrow written across her features.

There was no time for her to get lost in emotions. The moment she saw Charles walking ahead, Janice rushed to catch up, jogging the few steps so she could enter the house with him.

Everything inside was just as she remembered.

The same cozy décor she had once adored. The same warm tones they’d chosen together as newlyweds. Even after her blindness, when much of the furniture had been cleared for safety, everything had been restored. Every detail screamed of him. Of his effort. Of his love.

He had never truly stopped waiting for her.

"Master—wait, is that... Madam?" Fiona, the housekeeper who had been with them since their marriage, blinked in disbelief when she caught sight of Janice. She was stunned, eyes wide as though seeing a ghost.

"Fiona, it’s been a while," Janice greeted her with a soft smile, allowing the older woman to take her in. She knew how unbelievable it must seem—her return, her recovery. But she was really here. Whole. Healed.

"You... You can see now?" Fiona’s voice trembled with joy. Her eyes were glued to Janice’s clear, glistening gaze—eyes that now sparkled with light and intelligence.

"Yes. I can see." Janice’s smile bloomed like spring, radiant and breathtaking.

Charles caught the way her face lit up and felt something ripple deep inside him. But he gave no reaction. With a stiff face, he walked past them and headed upstairs.

"Charles..." she called after him instinctively, her feet following his like they always had.

He stopped at the door next to their master bedroom. Janice’s heart leapt—Trista.

Before their daughter was even born, Charles had personally designed the nursery beside their bedroom. He might not have been the most expressive father, but she knew he loved their child.

Janice hesitated at the threshold, heart pounding. She had dreamed of this moment—of holding her baby girl again. It had been a year. A whole year.

"She’s still asleep," came Charles’s low voice from inside the room. "Go change your clothes first."

Janice looked down at her damp clothes, nodded quickly, and turned toward their bedroom.

The door creaked open, and her breath caught in her throat.

Nothing had changed.

Half the closet was still filled with her clothes, untouched. The scent of Charles lingered in the air—faint but undeniable.

She broke down.

Tears streamed silently down her cheeks. Every corner of this room was filled with their memories: the bed, the couch, the bathroom... She couldn’t even begin to imagine how he had spent the past year alone in this space.

But she had held on to one belief—that she would come back. That she had to. And so she had fought to heal.

Yet in doing so, she had wounded him again and again...

After a warm shower and change of clothes, Janice stepped out of the bedroom and made her way to the nursery. Charles was no longer there. Maybe he still couldn’t bring himself to stay in the same room as her. She didn’t blame him.

She approached the soft pink canopy bed with silent steps.

And there she was.

Her baby girl.

Janice stood still, staring in awe at the little being who had once lived inside her body. Her chest swelled with emotion as she reached out to gently stroke her daughter’s tiny features.

Long, curled lashes. A tiny upturned nose that looked just like Charles’s. Petal-soft lips that moved slightly in sleep.

This little human was theirs—a miracle. A living embodiment of their love.

"Trista... Mommy’s home now," Janice whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to her daughter’s smooth cheek.

Her damp hair brushed over the baby’s face, and as she pulled back—

A pair of big, curious eyes blinked up at her.

And then...

A soft, sweet smile bloomed on Trista’s face.

"Sweetheart... you’re awake?"

Janice gazed into those crystal-clear eyes—eyes that looked exactly like hers.

For the first time, she began to understand why Charles might have seemed distant from Trista all this time. Was it because their daughter resembled her too much?

As Trista fully opened her eyes, the resemblance became even more striking. The delicate features, the gentle curves of her cheeks, the shape of her brows—she was like a miniature version of Janice.

For Charles, it must have been unbearable.

Every glance at Trista must have brought back memories of the woman who had left him in the deepest pain.

"Gigglegigglegiggle—" Trista squealed with laughter as Janice lifted her into her arms. Her tiny fists waved about, her legs kicking with glee.

It was as if some instinctive bond tied her to Janice—an unspoken recognition. She wasn’t shy at all. The moment she was cradled in her mother’s arms, she snuggled in comfortably, as though she had been waiting for this warmth her entire life.

Fiona walked in, having timed it just right. She paused in the doorway, watching the mother and daughter on the bed.

"She’s probably hungry by now. I’ll make her a bottle of formula," Fiona offered kindly.

The previous caretaker had been dismissed by Charles, and no replacement had been hired. But looking at them now, Fiona thought perhaps there was no need for one anymore.

"I’ll do it." Janice’s voice was soft but resolute.

A pang twisted her heart—she hadn’t fed her own daughter once in an entire year. Not even once.

Back then, when Trista was born, so fragile and tiny, Janice hadn’t even been able to see her. But deep down, she had felt it—her daughter must’ve struggled, and Charles had likely carried the burden alone, soothing them both.

"Alright... alright," Fiona said gently. She walked Janice through the room—where Trista’s clothes were, the formula, the toys, the diapers. Everything had a place.

Charles hadn’t said she could stay.

But his actions said enough.

And Janice... she wasn’t afraid anymore. Once, she had relied on his love, his indulgence. And now, she would reclaim that love—not through pride or defiance, but through quiet, steady devotion.

Trista was a lively little thing. Once she was in Janice’s arms, she refused to be put down.

"She’s learning to walk," Fiona explained. "But today, she’s decided she’s just gonna be a spoiled little princess."

The moment Janice tried to set her down, Trista wailed. Not just a fuss—full-on crocodile tears, arms outstretched toward her mother.

Guilt lanced through Janice’s chest. She scooped her right back up without a second thought, holding her tightly.

And so, she carried her all afternoon. She bathed her, soothed her, cradled her until she finally drifted off to sleep.

By the time the nursery fell quiet, Janice’s arms felt like lead. Numb, sore, but filled with warmth she hadn’t felt in a year.

Still, Charles was nowhere to be seen.

Had he gone out? Or... had he been in the house all along?

While helping Fiona prepare dinner, Janice finally got her answer—he hadn’t left. He’d been home the entire time.

Her heart skipped.

The study.

She walked there slowly, her footsteps light. She hesitated at the door, then knocked gently. No reply.

Taking a deep breath, she turned the knob and pushed the door open.

A warm amber lamp cast a soft glow across the room, but there was no sign of Charles.

She stepped in carefully—

And suddenly, from behind the door, a strong arm reached out and pulled her in.

Before she could react, she was wrapped in an unmistakably familiar embrace.

Warm. Steady. And aching with everything he hadn’t said.