I don’t answer, because talking suddenly feels impossible. Part of me is actually pretty pissed off that she’s making me do this. I get it, but I fucking hate it. I raise my hand to knock, but the door opens before I touch it.
My mother stands there. Rachel Graves, still beautiful in that effortless way she’s always been—long black hair falling around her face, bright blue eyes widening as if she’s seeing a ghost. For a second, she doesn’t move. Neither do I.
Then she gasps a broken sound and launches forward, arms wrapping around me so tightly I stumble back a step.
“Oh my god,” she sobs. “Jude—”
My throat closes. I stand there stiffly at first, because I don’t know how to do this. How to be held, how to let myself be wanted.
But when her hands clutch the back of my hoodie, shaking, something in me gives out. I fold into her, arms coming around her small frame. She barely reaches my shoulders now. I’ve always been tall, but years of being away seemed to make me even more of a giant next to her.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. It slips out without permission. “Mom, I’m—”
She pulls back just enough to frame my face with her hands. Her mascara is smudged already. “No. You’rehere. That’s all that matters, honey. My god, look at you.”
Behind her, my dad appears—tall, blonde hair, hazel eyes. He hesitates only a second before he steps in and embraces me too, his hand gripping my shoulder. “We’ve missed you, son,” he murmurs, voice rough.
Emma stands behind me on the porch, watching quietly.
Mom finally pulls away, sniffling as she ushers us inside. “Come in, come in. I ordered sushi. All your favorites. I wasn’t sure what you eat now, but you used to love—” Her voice trembles, but she forces a smile anyway.
The house feels smaller than I remember for some reason. We sit around the dining table, Mom unpacking bags of sushi while Emma helps with napkins and plates.
I keep my hoodie on, hands shoved into the pockets. Sweat prickles down my spine.
“You can take that off,” Dad says gently. “It’s warm inhere.”
I hesitate. Emma glances at me. Not pushing or judging, just waiting. So I do it. Slowly. I peel the hoodie off and fold it beside me.
My mother’s hand freezes mid-reach. Her eyes drop to my arms, to the faint bruises, the healed punctures, the lines of track marks scattered like a map of every bad decision I’ve made. Her breath catches. A tiny, wounded sound.
Emma’s frown deepens, concern tightening her mouth.
My dad looks away completely, jaw flexing as he swallows hard, like he’s trying not to break. And suddenly I feel naked. Cornered. Fuckingdissected.
Mom’s fingers grip mine softly. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispers. “I...I’m so sorry.”
The words hit so hard I have to look down, blinking fast because if I look up, if I meet her eyes, I will fall apart right here in the kitchen. Emma shifts closer, her knee nudging mine under the table, grounding me again.
Thank you, baby.
I breathe in. Breathe out.
Mom wipes her eyes, pretending to busy herself with the sushi containers, even though her hands are shaking. My dad leans back in his chair, arms folded, staring at the floor like he’s trying to process.
No one knows what to say.
Mom clears her throat and forces a bright tone. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”
“It’s sushi, Rach,” my dad murmurs gently.
She shoots him a look that saysshut up and let me control something,and for a second I almost smile. Some things don’t change. We finally start eating, and my mother fusses over my plate, loading it with all the things she remembers I loved. Spicy tuna, salmon nigiri, yellowtail, ginger on the side.
“Mom,” I say softly. “It’s enough.”
She smiles. “I just want you to have what you like.”
“I do.” I swallow hard. “Thank you.”
