“Love you too, Dad. Let me know about your friends. I’ll whip up some snacks or something until you get home.”
“Will do.”
The line clicks dead, leaving only the faint hum of the house around me.
I lower the phone slowly, staring at the dark screen, the quiet settling in like an extra weight on my shoulders.
If he really does invite them here, I want the house to feel warm like a home.
Not just for me, but for him and the friends he’s carried with him all these years.
The ones who knew him before he was my dad.
While I’ve never actually met any of them face-to-face, Dad’s told me plenty of stories to fill in the gaps.
I glance around the living room.
The place already feels like him, but it could feel…I don’t know, more?
Like the kind of space that says:welcome, stay awhile!instead of the gloomy dwelling of an empty-nesting widower.
So, I get to work.
The guest rooms upstairs smell faintly of my mom’s old perfume, sheets crisp from being tucked away too long and unused.
I strip and remake all three mattresses, fluff the pillows and replace the cases, even dig out the old quilts Mom made years ago that have been kept in the attic since her passing over a decade ago.
My chest tightens a little when I smooth it out, her careful stitching still pristine in the lamplight.
She would have been thrilled to fuss over guests like this. That had always been her bread and butter.
Next, I head downstairs.
The linoleum is cold under my socks, making me shiver a little as I open the fridge.
The light flickers on with a buzz, revealing its usual bachelor assortment: half a carton of eggs, a couple of takeout containers, milk that expires in two days, and a jar of pickles that looks like it’s been there since the last administration.
I sigh and shake my head, moving to the pantry while bracing myself.
It’s not much better: boxes of instant oatmeal, a stack of canned soups I’ve never seen him eat, let alone like, and a couple bags of chips shoved to the back with their clips half on. Typical Dad.
He’s never been one to grocery shop, and especially not since I left.
It’s a wonder the man still has enough energy to run around the station.
I manage to dig out a bag of flour, a tin of cocoa not yet expired, and a packet of sugar that had been shoved behind a box of saltines and was surprisingly still good.
Well, good enough.
Pulling on my mom’s old apron and rolling up my sweater’s sleeves, I unpack everything the groceries I brought.
Normally I’d try to make some kind of savory dish for a late afternoon snack, but the upcoming holidays have me feeling more festive than usual.
It’s always been a tradition for Dad and me to break out the cookie-making supplies and spend an entire day churning out enough baked goods to feed half the town.
It’s kind of funny how easily I fall back into this rhythm.
Butter softens under the heat of my palms, sugar granules crunch against the wooden spoon when I mix everything together, cocoa dust lifts into the air in a thin chocolate-scented cloud.
