———
In the morning, the house is quiet.
The only noise is the sizzle of eggs in the pan and the click of my toothbrush against my teeth. I pack my bag slow, folding everything with an exactness that feels less like organization and more like stalling.
My flight is at ten, but I could leave earlier if I wanted. I just don’t want.
My mom finds me in my room, folding a t-shirt I never wore. She stands in the doorway, arms crossed, one hip cocked. She lets the silence stretch, lets me notice her, then says, “You going back today?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
She just stands there, watching me, her face a mask of patience. I keep folding, but my hands are shaking.
Finally, she comes in, sits next to me on the bed. She smells like citrus, and her knee bounces up and down, restless.
“You know you can always come home, right?” she says.
I nod again, but she’s not done.
“Whatever it is, whenever you’re ready to talk about it, I’ll be here.”
I feel the words settle into my bones. It’s almost too much.
She puts a hand on my wrist, gentle but firm. Holds it there.
I look down at her fingers, the wedding ring, the tiny scar on her knuckle from when she cut herself slicing mangoes when I was a kid.
She squeezes once, then lets go.
“You’ll be okay,” she says. “You always are.”
I almost believe her.
She leans in, kisses my forehead like I’m five years old, and whispers, “Be brave, baby.”
She gets up, leaves me alone with my bag and the faint scent of her shampoo.
I sit there for a long time, her handprint still tingling on my wrist.
When I finally stand, I zip the bag, sling it over my shoulder, and head for the front door.
My dad’s already gone, probably at the office, maybe buying more of a company that nobody’s ever heard of. My mom is in the kitchen, reading the paper, humming to herself.
I linger at the threshold, wanting to say something, anything that would make it easier.
Instead, I just say, “Love you, Mom.”
She doesn’t look up, but I see her smile.
“Love you too, D.”
Outside, the morning is bright, the air brisk. I walk to the curb, call a car, and watch the city wake up.
The airport is chaos, but I move through it on autopilot, my mind replaying the last forty-eight hours on loop.
My father’s advice, my mother’s silence, the line of pelicans and the moment before the dive.
At the gate, I sit with my phone in my lap, thumb hovering over Ash’s name. I want to call, to explain, to tell him I’m done running.
