All That Went Unsaid | Complete (18+)

Epilogue

Sophie Esinberg's POV

I packed my luggage with mechanical precision, folding clothes, tucking chargers and documents into pockets. Everything felt distant, like I was watching myself from the other side of the room. I booked an Uber with shaking fingers. The match would start in three hours. By then, I would already be in the air, somewhere between continents, I could pretend that distance would soften the damage I had done.

The lab was on fire.

So was my relationship with Raymond.

I had betrayed him. There was no gentler word for it. He had stood up for me. For us. Against an entire country that wanted a villain to blame, and when he needed me beside him the most, I had walked away.

The zipper of my suitcase closed with a final, unforgiving sound.

"Your Uber is here!" Avery's voice cut through the quiet from the front porch, bright and careful in that way she got when she was trying not to cry.

"Coming," I called back, my voice steadier than I felt.

I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and started down the staircase, each step heavier than the last. The house smelled faintly of detergent and cinnamon, of home and permanence—things I kept leaving behind.

Mom stood by the front door, already waiting, a small box clutched to her chest. The lid was slightly ajar, and I could see the familiar cookies inside—oatmeal and cinnamon, baked too late last night while I pretended not to notice. She always made them for me. Always. The same way she always tucked extra napkins into my bag, or slipped cash into my coat pocket like I was still seventeen and leaving for a school trip.

"I wish you could stay a little longer with us, darling," she said softly, holding the box out to me.

Something twisted painfully in my chest. Those cookies had followed me through every version of myself—late nights in college, shared apartments with roommates who never knew why I guarded my stash like treasure, evenings when I missed home so badly I ate them in the dark just to feel close to something familiar.

"I know," I said, forcing a small smile as I took the box from her hands. The warmth seeped through the cardboard into my palms. "I wish I could too."

"Why don't you and Avery visit me next month?" I said, the words leaving my mouth before I could overthink them, an idea blooming suddenly, fragile and hopeful.

My mother's eyes lit up instantly like a child offered something she hadn't dared to ask for. "Oh, what a wonderful idea!" she said, a smile spreading across her face.

And it broke my heart.

Because it wasn't just excitement in her voice. It was relief. It was longing. It was the sound of someone who had been waiting to be invited back into her daughter's life.

The realization hit me hard enough to steal my breath. I had never asked them to visit. Not once. I had always said I was busy. Always hid behind deadlines and time zones. Always gave excuses that sounded responsible enough not to be questioned.

But the truth sat heavier in my chest.

I had been afraid.

Afraid they would see that their Sophie wasn't as strong as she pretended to be. Afraid they would notice the cracks in my mask, the way I stitched myself together every morning and hoped no one tugged at the seams. Afraid they would see how lonely I was, how most days I survived on momentum alone, barely keeping myself upright through sheer will.

And in protecting myself, I had deprived myself of them.

Even worse, I had deprived my mother of her child. The woman who had clawed her way out of devastation for us. Who had been brutally broken but rebuilt herself in silence so her daughters could stand taller. Who had lost so much and still showed up, day after day, with warmth and cookies and love she never rationed.