Chapter 9: The Beginning of His Regret

By the middle of the semester, life in Texas had begun to feel almost ordinary. I attended lectures, worked my shifts at the café, and spent evenings studying with Sophie. The scholarship eased some of my financial pressure, and Daniel Mercer had confirmed that the final steps for my father's education fund were underway.

I still thought about the Wells family sometimes, but I no longer checked my phone every few minutes to see whether Mom had written. I was learning that distance could give a person room to breathe.

Back home, however, my absence had become impossible to ignore.

I learned this from a message sent by an old classmate. She said Rhys had been asking people whether anyone knew how I was doing. At first, I assumed it was another attempt to mock me, but her next message changed my mind: the college had announced its scholarship recipients online, and my name was on the list.

I stared at the screen. I hadn't expected anyone from my old town to notice. I certainly hadn't expected the news to reach Rhys.

That evening, a message appeared from a number I didn't recognize.

Adriana, it's Rhys. I heard you got a scholarship. Call me.

I read it once, then put my phone down. There was no apology, no acknowledgment of what he had done—only a demand that I respond.

An hour later, another message arrived.

I'm serious. We need to talk.

I didn't reply. For years, Rhys had decided when we spoke, what we spoke about, and when I was allowed to leave. I wasn't going to return to that pattern just because he had finally become curious about my life.

The following morning, Mom sent an email. She wrote that Rhys had been unusually quiet since he heard about my scholarship. He had asked her whether I was eating properly and whether I had enough money. She said she thought he might be worried about me.

I wanted to believe that meant something. But concern after someone leaves is not the same as kindness while they're still there.

At the café, I told Sophie about the messages. She listened without interrupting, then asked me what I wanted to happen.

I didn't know how to answer at first. Part of me wanted Rhys to admit that he had lied, that he had made my life miserable, and that he had helped turn my own mother against me. Another part of me wanted to stop giving him space in my thoughts.

You don't have to forgive him just because he finally noticed you're gone, Sophie said gently.

Her words settled over me like a quiet truth. I could decide whether to speak to Rhys. I could decide what forgiveness meant to me. Neither decision had to happen on his schedule.

Two days later, I received a package at the campus mailroom. Inside was a small envelope from the Wells house. My name was written on it in Mom's handwriting.

I opened it carefully. There was a short note and a photograph from my childhood—me sitting beside my father in the garden, smiling with the necklace around my neck.

Mom's note said she had found the photograph while sorting through old things. She wrote that she missed me and wished she had listened more carefully when I tried to tell her the truth.

I read the note several times. It was the first time she had acknowledged that she might have failed me. It wasn't enough to erase years of hurt, but it was more honest than anything she had said since I left.

I placed the photograph beside my desk and drafted a reply. I told her I was willing to talk if she could listen without blaming me or making excuses for Rhys. I also told her I wasn't ready to come home.

That night, Rhys sent one final message.

I'm sorry I made you leave.

I sat very still. It was the closest thing to an apology he had ever offered, but it was also painfully incomplete. He hadn't named the accusations, the humiliation, or the years he had spent making me feel unwanted.

I didn't answer immediately. Instead, I saved the message and went back to studying. His words could wait. My life could not.

For the first time, I understood that regret wasn't the same as change. Rhys could miss me, worry about me, or feel guilty about the empty space I had left behind. If he truly wanted to make things right, he would have to do more than send a message.

And I would have to decide, in my own time, whether I wanted to hear the rest.