I stand in front of a white house. It has sleek black shutters and it’s bigger than ours. The yard wraps around it, the perfect shade of green, with tall shrubs framing the property line. The driveway stretches in front of me, vast and empty.
It looks like a place my mom would like. She always wanted our house to appear more expensive than it was.
I rock on my heels, trying to build up the courage to step forward.
This is it. Somehow I managed to find the place without my phone. It only took a gas station map and one too many wrong bus rides.
My heart is beating out of my chest and my palms are sweaty.
I should run up to the door and knock. It’s what I traveled all this way for, but I can’t force myself to move.
Taking a deep breath, I turn away from the house. I need to think about what I’m going to say. I need to say it perfectly. The problem is I don’t exactly know what I want to tell her. There’s a part of me that wants to tell her off forleaving. After three years my anger is on the verge of exploding.
But I know I won’t. I know the second she opens that door all I’m going to want is for her to hug me and tell me she loves me. That’s why I can’t bring myself to walk up the driveway. I’m afraid she’ll push me away again.
I’m scared of being alone.
No matter where I am, I don’t belong. I’m like a puzzle piece that got mixed in with the wrong puzzle and won’t fit no matter how hard I try.
And yet, here I am, still trying to fit into the puzzle. For some reason I believe her telling me she loves me—that she wants me—will fix me.
I walk down the street, trying to clear my head. I focus on my feet, one foot in front of the other.
There’s a car behind me and as I move to the side of the road, I notice the car pulls into my mom’s driveway.
Is that her?
I walk back, staying close to the shrubs to stay out of view.
A man in a gray suit gets out of the driver’s side. He walks around the car and opens the passenger door.
I bite my lip to stop it from wobbling.
There she is.
My mom takes his hand and steps out of the car. Her hair is pinned up and she wears bright red lipstick.
He says something I can’t hear and she laughs.
Then he kisses her.
He kisses my mom.
My throat grows tight. She looks so happy, and it makes me mad. How could she be this happy when my family is so miserable?
I inch closer, ready to run up and yell at her. To demand attention.
“Can I help you?” the man asks the second my foot hits the driveway.
My mom turns and her smile fades. All of the happiness I just saw dissipates from her face when her eyes land on me.
My blood runs cold and I can’t breathe.
Mom pats his shoulder and says, “Look at the poor thing. She must be lost.” Then she looks directly at me. “Isn’t that right?”
I don’t understand what comes over me. I should yell at her for pretending not to know me, but the urge to please her wins.
I nod.
