Clouds coil around the distant peaks, and sunlight spears through the gaps to spotlight random patches of wilderness, as if the world itself is a stage and nature is working the lights.
“Dad!” I call over my shoulder. “Come see the view.”
They join me, one on each side, and we stand at the railing with our elbows brushing, a small, steady point of contact. For a long moment, none of us speak.
“Wow,” Mom finally says. “That is quite the view, honey.”
Dad just stands there, for once rendered speechless by something other than sports or classic cars.
We retreat inside and I let my gaze sweep across my humble domain.
“It’s mine,” I whisper to myself. “My own. My precious.”
Dad, still within earshot, lifts an eyebrow so high it nearly vanishes into his hairline. “You’ve watched The Lord of the Rings one too many times.”
“You’re the one who introduced me to it,” I remind him.
“If I’d known it would transform my daughter into Gollum reincarnated, I might’ve suggested Disney princesses instead,” he says, eyes crinkle at the corners.
“Next thing I know, you’ll be calling the apartment the Precious,” he adds, lowering his voice dramatically, “and hissing at visitors.”
“Only the unwelcome ones,” I shoot back. Only one person fits that description so far, and he shall not be named.
We dissolve into laughter, the kind that makes your stomach hurt in the best way.
Mom dives into unpacking with frightening efficiency, tearing through box after box like she’s competing in an Olympic event called Domestic Domination. Within minutes, my modest countertops vanish beneath piles of kitchenware, sorted and stacked according to a system that exists solely in her head.
She’ll arrange everything perfectly, of course. And I’ll spend the next month opening cabinets like I’m playing a very unfun scavenger hunt just to find my favorite coffee mug.
“I brought you some snacks to get you through the week,” Mom declares, digging into her bag for a container of homemade granola bars. “And muffins,” she adds, pulling out another. Then, with a triumphant little flourish, “Oh, and chocolate chip cookies.”
My chest tightens. “Thanks, Mom. You’re the best.”
The next hour blurs into a whirl of torn tape and empty boxes, the apartment slowly filling with the shape of my life. Somewhere along the way, the teasing starts, and then the stories.
Naturally, they gravitate toward the embarrassing ones, the tales they keep polished and ready like treasured heirlooms. And even as I groan and protest, laughter stitches the moment together.
“Remember when Sarah tried to build that treehouse?” Dad asks, unfolding a blanket with a sharp snap before draping it over my secondhand couch.
Mom’s laugh rings out, bright and unapologetic. “The one that collapsed before it was even finished?”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Hey, Dad gave me terrible instructions! I was, like, seven.”
“Seven going on thirty,” Dad teases, eyes twinkling like he’s been saving this line all day. “You had blueprints rolled up under your arm like you were Bob the Builder with a corner office.” He shakes his head, amused. “You looked ready to invoice us.”
“And when it fell apart,” Mom adds, wiping tears of laughter from the corners of her eyes, “you just stood there with your hands on your hips and said, ‘It’s a design flaw.’” She laughs again, breathy and delighted. “Like you’d planned it that way all along.”
“I was ahead of my time,” I defend with a grin.
“That determination,” dad says, voice warm and steady, “is why you’re going to thrive here.” His gaze holds mine. “And at your new job.”
The sun sinks lower, spilling long shadows across my new living room. Mom glances at her watch and sighs, the sound threaded with reluctance. “We should head out before it gets dark.”
A lump forms in my throat. Even though they live less than an hour away, I’m still sad to see them go.
I’ll be on my own in a town where my ex-boyfriend, who is also my boss, seems to lurk around everywhere I go.
Mom pulls me into a tight embrace. “We’re so proud of you, sweetie. Call us if you need anything.”
