The guest room smelled faintly of lavender and old books. Sunlight streamed through lace curtains, casting soft patterns on the quilted bedspread. Camila stood in the doorway, her white backpack slung over one shoulder, her suitcase resting at her feet. The room hadn't changed much since her teenage years—same cream walls, same wooden dresser, same framed photo of her and her mother at the botanical gardens.
Her mother stepped in behind her, carrying the pink file folder and a small laundry basket filled with Camila's cow slippers, frog bowl, and hair accessories.
"Let's get you settled," she said gently.
Camila nodded, her throat still tight from earlier tears. She set her backpack on the bed and opened her suitcase. Her mother knelt beside her, unfolding pajamas and stacking outfits in the dresser drawers with practiced hands.
"You always fold so neatly," her mother said, smiling softly.
Camila shrugged. "It helps me feel in control."
Her mother paused, then reached for the frog bowl wrapped in a towel. She placed it carefully on the nightstand, beside a small lamp shaped like a tulip.
"You've always loved frogs," she said. "Even as a baby. You used to carry that plush frog everywhere."
Camila smiled faintly. "It made me feel safe."
Her mother sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing the quilt beneath her. Camila joined her, their shoulders touching.
"I want to talk to you," her mother said. "About love. About marriage."
Camila nodded, bracing herself.
"I've been married to your father for thirty-five years," her mother began. "And it hasn't always been easy. We've had fights. We've had silence. We've had moments where we didn't know if we'd make it."
Camila looked at her, surprised.
"But we stayed," her mother continued. "We stayed because we respected each other. Because we never let anyone else into the space we built. Not emotionally. Not physically."
She turned to Camila, her eyes full of quiet fire.
"I don't understand this generation," she said. "How love is thrown around like a game. How people treat relationships like trends. You're messing with people's feelings. You're breaking hearts for sport."
Camila's eyes welled up again.
Her mother reached for her hand. "Your body is a temple, Camila. Sacred. You don't let just anyone walk in. You don't let someone touch you unless that connection is real. Unless it's rooted in love, in trust, in respect."
Camila nodded slowly. "I thought we had that."
Her mother squeezed her hand. "You did. You gave it. He didn't honor it. That's not your fault."
They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of truth settling between them.
"I'm proud of you," her mother said. "For leaving. For knowing your worth. For protecting your temple."
Camila leaned into her mother's shoulder, the warmth grounding her.
"I don't know what comes next," she whispered.
Her mother kissed her forehead. "You rest. You heal. You remember who you are."
Camila looked around the room—her frog bowl, her bunny clips, her books stacked neatly on the dresser.
She was home.
And she was sacred.
The guest room was quiet, wrapped in the hush of evening. Outside, the wind rustled through the trees, brushing against the windows like a lullaby. Camila sat cross-legged on the bed, her frog bowl now resting on the nightstand beside a small lamp casting a warm amber glow.
She had unpacked slowly, methodically. Her cow slippers were tucked neatly under the bed. Her bunny, fox, frog, and star hair clips were arranged in a small ceramic dish her mother had left for her. Her books were stacked on the dresser, spines facing outward like old friends. The pink file folder was tucked safely into the bottom drawer, beneath her pajamas.
She wore one of those pajamas now—soft cotton with tiny moons and stars scattered across the fabric. Her hair was still in a low ponytail, a few strands curling against her cheek. She sat with her journal open in her lap, pen poised but unmoving.
The words weren't ready yet.
She looked around the room. It was familiar, but distant. A space she'd once called hers, now borrowed again. The quilt on the bed was the same one her mother had sewn when she was sixteen—patches of lavender, mint, and cream stitched together with love and patience. The bookshelf still held a few of her childhood favorites: The Secret Garden, Anne of Green Gables, a worn copy of The Velveteen Rabbit.
Camila reached for her phone, checked the time. 9:42 p.m.
She hadn't heard from him. Not a call. Not a text.
She didn't know if that hurt more or less.
She set the phone down and turned off the lamp. The room dimmed, lit only by the moonlight slipping through the curtains. She slid under the covers, the quilt cool against her skin, and lay on her side facing the window.
Her heart ached.
Not just from betrayal, but from the unraveling of a life she had built with care. The routines, the shared meals, the quiet evenings. The laughter that had once filled their home. The way she used to feel safe in his arms.
She closed her eyes.
Memories flickered—him tying her bow before work, their anniversary dinner at the Italian place near Forest Park, the way he used to kiss her forehead when she was tired. Then the photos. The woman. The lies.
Camila turned onto her back, staring at the ceiling.
She whispered to herself, voice barely audible.
"I didn't deserve that."
The words hung in the air, soft and true.
She reached for her frog bowl, held it in her hands like a talisman. It was silly, maybe. But it was hers. It had seen her through quiet lunches, lonely dinners, and now this—her first night alone.
She placed it back on the nightstand, pulled the quilt tighter around her shoulders, and let herself cry. Not loudly. Not broken. Just soft tears that slipped down her cheeks and soaked into the pillow.
And then, slowly, sleep came.
Not peaceful. Not whole.
But enough.