I’d made it a hundred times before—the stretch of I-65 that cut through pine forests and past small towns with names like Hope Hull and Greenville, the kind of places that existed primarily as exits you didn’t take. But today every mile dragged, the radio cycling through songs I didn’t hear, my thoughts stuck somewhere between the apartment I’d left this morning and the house I was heading toward.
Seth had still been asleep when I left. I’d stood in his doorway for a long moment, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the way his face went slack and unguarded in sleep. He’d be catching a flight to his parents’ place in a few hours. We’d said our goodbyes last night—careful, measured, neither of us quite bridging the distance that had settled between us over the past week.
Have a good trip,I’d said.
You too,he’d answered.
And then we’d gone to our separate rooms, and I’d lain awake for hours, trying to figure out how we’d gotten here. I hated not sleeping next to him, but I knew that if I had, he’d have woken up with me, and then I wouldn’t have left until he needed to go.
The exit for my hometown appeared on the right. I signaled, merged, and felt my chest go tight the way it always did when I came home. It had gotten worse since Dad died—every street corner a reminder, every familiar storefront a ghost.
Mom’s car was in the driveway when I pulled up. The house looked the same as it always did—a brick ranch with white shutters, the magnolia tree Dad had planted when I was born now tall enough to shade the front windows. Someone had hung a wreath on the door. New. Mom must have bought it recently.
I sat in the car for longer than I should have, hands still on the steering wheel, trying to prepare myself for whatever waited inside.
This was the first Thanksgiving without him. The first holiday where his chair at the table would be empty, not because he was confused or agitated or unable to sit through a meal, but because he was gone. In some ways, we’d been grieving him for years—losing pieces of him bit by bit as the disease progressed. But this was different. This was final.
I grabbed my bag from the passenger seat and headed for the door.
Mom met me in the entryway with a hug that lasted too long.
She’d lost weight since I’d last seen her. I could feel her shoulder blades through her sweater, sharp in a way they hadn’t been before. When she pulled back, her eyes were wet, but she was smiling.
“You look good,” she said, cupping my face in her hands. “Better than the last time you visited.”
“That’s not a high bar.”
“Take the compliment, Tanner.” She squeezed my cheeks once—a gesture from childhood that should have been annoying but instead made my shoulders drop. “Are you hungry? I’ve got a pot roast in the oven, but I can make you a sandwich.”
“I’m okay. Maybe just coffee.”
The kitchen smelled like slow-cooked beef and caramelized onions, the scent so familiar it hit me like a physical blow. This was what home was supposed to smell like. This was the kitchen where I’d sat at the counter doing homework while Mom cooked, where Dad had snuck bites of stuffing when he thought no one was looking, where we’d been a family before everything fell apart.
I leaned against the counter and watched Mom move around the space. She had a rhythm to her cooking—efficient, practiced, the muscle memory of decades of meals. The coffee maker gurgled to life, and she pulled down two mugs without asking.
“How’s school?” she asked. “You said you had that presentation.”
“It went well. The committee seemed impressed.”
“Of course they were.” She handed me a mug, already fixed the way I liked it. “You’ve been working so hard on that research. I’m proud of you.”
The praise hit somewhere behind my ribs. I took a long drink of coffee to hide whatever was happening on my face.
“And the grad school applications?” she continued. “Any news?”
“I got into Wilmington. Full funding.”
Mom’s whole face transformed. “Tanner! When did you find out? Why didn’t you call me?”
“It was recent. Things have been…” I trailed off, not sure how to explain the week I’d had. “Busy.”
“Well, this calls for a celebration. Wilmington was your first choice, wasn’t it?” She was already pulling a bottle of champagne from the fridge. When had she bought champagne? “We’ll toast at dinner.”
“Mom, you don’t have to?—”
“I want to.” She set the bottle on the counter with a decisive thunk. “Your father would have been over the moon. He always said you’d do something important with your work.”
The mention of Dad hung in the air between us. For a moment, neither of us spoke. The coffee maker dripped. The oven hummed. Outside, a car passed on the street, its engine fading into silence.
