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the family i chose

ELLIE

I didn’t expect David’s message to come without arguments. No passive-aggressive jabs. No guilt-tripping follow-up texts disguised as concern. Just a neatly written message, as if this was always going to be simple.

And it should feel like relief, the ending I’ve been aching for. But it leaves a strange taste in my mouth. Like I’ve waited so long for the next fight that its absence makes me feel off balance.

Still, I won’t lie to myself. Not now. The ease of it makes my stomach twist. The way he backed away, suddenly respectful and polite. I see straight through it. The fear, now that he knows I’ve started putting things in writing. That I’ve stopped apologising for seeing him clearly.

But I’m not dwelling on it. Not anymore. There’s no point in trying to find meaning in his silences, or morality in his retreats. He’s gone. That’s all I need to know.

And this? This is the start of something. Of moving forward. Of choosing my own version of stability—not just for Mia’s sake, but for mine.

Because I’ve spent years putting everyone else first. Holding myself together in the background of someone else’s chaos.

Not anymore.

Not this time.

Today, I’m walking back into that house for myself.

I pull into the driveway—the tyres crunching over the familiar patch of gravel I once resented for always needing weeding.

The house rises in front of me like a memory I haven’t decided what to do with yet.

The curtains are drawn. The porch light is off.

From the outside, it looks untouched, like it’s been holding its breath.

Mia’s not with us. Brenda offered to take her for a few hours, claiming she’d teach her how to make her famous scones, which probably means they’re already covered in flour and eating dough straight from the bowl. I’m grateful. For the distraction. For Brenda. For all of it.

Naomi’s in the passenger seat beside me, her fingers drumming against her thigh like she’s trying to keep herself from reaching over and squeezing mine. Kieran’s in the back seat, his presence steady and solid like it always is.

My people.

I kill the engine and rest my hands on the steering wheel for a second longer than necessary. Naomi says nothing. Neither does Kieran. They just wait. No pressure. No theatrics. Just there.

I glance at Naomi, and she gives me a small nod. A you’ve got this without making a big deal of it.

Before I can move, Kieran’s already out of the back seat, circling around the car. He opens my door without a word, offering me a hand. Not because I need it to stand, but because it’s a ritual now. A silent promise: I’m here.

The cold air bites first, threaded with the damp, heavy scent of fallen leaves.

I tug my coat tighter around me and step onto the path, the key heavy and unfamiliar in my coat pocket.

We walk the rest of the way in silence, and when we reach the door—I pause.

The keys bite into my palm where I’ve been gripping them.

Kieran’s voice is low beside me. “You alright?”

I nod, but my voice comes out smaller than I mean it to. “Yeah. Just… weird, I guess.”

I take a breath, square my shoulders, and step up to the door.

The lock sticks, like it always bloody does, but after a little wiggle and a muttered curse under my breath, it clicks. My fingers tighten around the handle.

And then I push the door open. It creaks with a low groan, and the house exhales around us like it’s been holding its breath, too.

The smell hits first. Faint dust, a hint of stale polish, something floral still clinging to the air from the diffuser I left on the hall table. It’s familiar, but distant. Like it belonged to another version of me.

The hallway stretches ahead, unchanged. Same photo frames on the wall. Same stack of post on the sideboard. One of Mia’s shoes still wedged under the radiator, where she kicked it off in a rush and we never moved it.

But there’s something off, too. Like the house knows it’s been in limbo. Like it’s waiting for someone to decide what it becomes now.

I step forward, then another, each footfall louder than it should be. Naomi and Kieran follow, letting me lead.

I check the front room first.

The curtains are still drawn, but enough light seeps through to cast thin slats of grey across the floor. It’s colder in here. Emptier.

He’s gone.

The jacket that always hung from the banister? Gone. The decanter on the shelf that I hated but never moved? Gone. His laptop bag?

All of it. Gone.

I let out a breath, the kind you don’t even realise you’re holding until it spills out of you. “He’s actually gone,” I say, half to myself.

I look around. Letting my gaze move around the room. The space looks wrong without his things, but not in a way that makes me want them back. Just in a way that makes the air feel different. Lighter. Like even the walls are trying to figure out what comes next.

I walk through the rest of the house with a steadier step. The hallway. Upstairs.

No trace of him.

The wardrobe has gaps now, his side emptied. The bedside drawer on the left is open and bare. The bathroom’s missing his razor, the aftershave I used to love on him before everything soured.

But still. No notes. No mess. No confrontation. Just… gone.

When I make my way back downstairs, Naomi’s in the kitchen, surveying the space with her arms folded.

“We’ve got some serious work to do,” she says, wrinkling her nose at the stack of dirty dishes in the sink and the smell of something long-expired creeping out of the fridge.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Kieran says, already moving toward it.

I step further into the kitchen and stop cold. It’s not a bomb site. But it’s not clean either.

The sink is full. Plates crusted over, mugs stained with tea. Bottles of whiskey lined up like trophies on the worktop, two of them empty and tipped over like no one could be bothered to right them.

I move toward the kitchen table. The placemats are askew, shoved aside in a hurry. There’s a faint ring of coffee staining the wood.

The laptop’s gone, but its presence still lingers. A rectangle of cleaner wood, a faint border of dust. A small groove where the charger always dragged against the edge.

The ghost of his habits.

I tug one chair back—the legs scraping against the tiles and something slips out from underneath.

I crouch, steady fingers reaching for it.

A betting slip. A few odds scrawled in the margins in handwriting I know better than my own.

I close my fingers around it. The paper crinkles, sharp and dry, in my palm.

Naomi’s sorting through the fridge. Kieran’s stacking plates by the sink. Moving through this space like it already belongs to me again.

I walk to the bin, flip the lid, and drop the slip inside.

Just like that.

He didn’t leave it out on purpose. He missed it. Dropped it. A final oversight in a life built on secrets so tightly packed they crumbled under their own weight.

But I saw it. And that’s enough.

I turn back to the table, taking it all in one more time. The empty spot where his laptop lived. The coffee stain. The faint scuff on the chair where he used to hook his ankle.

Proof of presence. Proof of absence.

And I feel it, that shift again. It’s subtle. But solid.

I don’t feel sad. Or rageful. Or nostalgic. I feel done. Done pretending. Done excusing. Done waiting for something to change.

And somewhere inside that quiet knowing, I find the smallest ember of peace.

Naomi and Kieran stayed for most of the afternoon. We blitzed through the rooms like a well-oiled machine. Bin bags, surface spray, an unspoken agreement to throw out anything that didn’t spark joy or belonged to a version of life that no longer fit.

Naomi swore at the dodgy hoover. Kieran fixed the hinge on the back door like it was no big deal. They kept the mood light. Like they knew I needed progress without pressure, momentum without weight.

And when they left, it wasn’t a goodbye. It was a “see you later,” a bottle of wine tucked into the fridge, a door left open for whenever I needed to step through it again.

Now, it’s just me and Mia.

We’re curled on the sofa, wrapped in a throw blanket that still smells faintly of Naomi’s washing powder.

She’s still in her school uniform, knees drawn up beneath her, hot chocolate cradled in both hands.

Her hair’s a little wild from where she yanked it free of her ponytail, and she’s staring at the TV with that glazed-over expression that says she’s not really watching it at all.

I shift closer, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “Hey, bug?”

She glances up at me, alert. Waiting. Like she already knows something important is coming. I clear my throat, grounding myself. “So, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

She nods, quiet and steady. “Is this about David?”

“Yeah,” I say gently. “It is.”

Her fingers tighten around the mug.

“You know how we’ve been at Naomi’s for a while? And before that, with Kieran?”

Another nod. Slower this time.

“Well… the reason we left is because some some things David was doing—how he was treating me—they weren’t okay. I didn’t see it at first. Or maybe I didn’t want to. But I should’ve left sooner. I know that now.”

She looks down at her drink, stirring the marshmallows until they dissolve into froth. “Did you fight?”

I pause, choosing my words carefully. “It’s complicated. There were a lot of things I didn’t realise weren’t normal. And I need you to know, it’s not your job to worry about it. What matters is that we’re here. And we’re safe.”

She nods again, but her brow furrows. “So… you broke up?”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “We did.”

Silence stretches between us for a moment, taut but not heavy. “Is he coming back?” she asks, her voice small.

I shake my head. “No. I made that clear. And if he does show up or tries to contact us, I’ll handle it. It’s just us now. Like it was before.”