President
I sip my coffee and stare at her words. “If you believed in me, you wouldn’t have let me go.”
Instantly, I feel bad for thinking that way. They didn’t treat me poorly. They made a business decision.But why is the situation so different now? If it was so easy to lose me, how could I be that important to them?
My mind drifts to California and what life would look like if I went back. The people. The noise. Sitting in traffic for hours to go five miles.
But it is money—good money. And with the position comes so many opportunities that most people would kill for.
I try to make myself excited about it. I remember the disappointment of being let go. Even though I was ready to go back to Texas or to do something different wherever that was, it still felt like a loss.They didn’t need me. And if they had changed their mind before I left, I probably would’ve stayed.
But now that I’m not there,now that I’m here, none of that is tempting.
Except I’m nothereeither. Not for much longer.
“Why does life have to be so damn hard?” I ask as rain begins to pelt the windows again.
I set my mug down and pick up my phone. I scroll through my texts from Chase. All week, he’s habitually sent me selfies throughout the day. In his truck. Next to a power pole. Beside a swiftly flowing creek. I return the gesture with pictures of myself on his bed, doing laundry, and making dinner.
The pictures might get more provocative when he leaves town tomorrow morning for a couple of days. I hope so, anyway.
I stare at the last picture he sent me and zoom in on his face. He’s exhausted and filthy, but a twinkle in his eye makes myheart squeeze. Beneath the picture is a text that he’ll be home late.
Home.
I awaken my computer and re-read Dorothy’s email.I’m here to assure you that Iyala is your home.
Out of all the words in Chase’s message and that email, those stick out.
It’s such a simple word—just four letters.Home. But there aren’t enough letters in the alphabet in the world to capture the meaning of it.
I stand, picking up my coffee and wrapping my hands around the mug.
“Where is my home?” I ask aloud.
I wander around the room as I wander around life, looking for an answer. Looking for a place where I belong.
Looking for my home.
I’ve always imagined that I would live in a place full of love. My life would be bursting at the seams with people, PTA conferences, and neighbors dropping by for no reason. It would be somewhere I didn’t wake up and feel like an impostor living in someone else’s life.
There wouldn’t be a fear that it all might end abruptly—that the rug might be pulled out from under me when I least expect it. Like every time one of my mom’s marriages ended. And when things at school seemed to be settling down, I thought I was making friends, only to wake up to our front yard with a million forks stuck in the ground. Or when we moved to Dallas, I left behind everything I’d ever known.
When I lost my job.
I pick up my phone and call my mom. She answers on the third ring.
“Hey, honey. How are you? Is everything okay?” she asks.
“Hi, Mom. I’m good. Everyone is gone, and it’s nice and quiet, so I thought I would check in.”And I needed to hear your voice.
“Well, I don’t have a lot to report. The pain in my leg is getting better, thank goodness. I’ve watched every movie on the Hallmark Channel. I’m tired of ordering takeout, and I think I’ve gained twenty pounds just sitting here.”
I smile. “You’re tired of takeout?”
She laughs, and the sound soothes my soul.
“How are you liking Peachwood Falls?” she asks.
