My parents’ house looks the same as it did when I left. The porch swing still groans on its rusted chains, swaying slightly in the breeze like it’s greeting me with a tired sigh. The siding is a tired beige, patched here and there, and the front door remains that same shade of soft blue, chipped at the corners and weathered from time.
The grass is overgrown, curling around the mailbox post and creeping up through the cracks in the driveway. The old station wagon is still parked at the edge of the gravel driveway, dented and loyal.
This house smells like home, earthy, lived-in, and faintly of the lemon wood polish my mom’s sworn by since the 90s. The moment I step inside, I’m hit with the scent of onions and butter and something baking, probably her chicken pot pie. There’s a squeak in the floorboard under the entry rug. The same one I tried to sneak past a thousand times as a teenager. Before I can take another step, my dad sweeps me into a bear hug.
“Oh, sweetheart, welcome home.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I hold him tight. His flannel shirt smells faintly of sawdust and motor oil. “I missed you.”
He pulls back to beam at me with that gap-toothed grin that used to embarrass me in middle school but now makes my throat tighten. His hair’s gone fully white now, and the lines in his face are deeper, but his eyes still crinkle the same way when he smiles.
“How’s Paris? You must love it, we haven’t seen you since you left!”
“It’s only been two years, Dad,” I say with a small laugh,though guilt pricks at the back of my neck. “I’ve just been busy. Classes, work, life… You know.” I shrug, eyes flicking around the room before I ask, “Where’s Mom?”
“Dining room with your sister,” he says, already turning and leading me through the narrow hallway lined with family photos in mismatched frames. Abigail in her prom dress, me in a crooked cap and gown, the three of us at Christmas one year when I still had braces. My baby photo hangs right outside the dining room, just above the thermostat. Mom still calls me her happy accident, says she and Dad thought they were done after Abigail, and then, boom, surprise.
The living room is small and cozy, filled with mismatched furniture, two faded armchairs, a lumpy couch, and an old TV. The curtains are heavy and yellowing at the edges, filtering the afternoon light in a way that makes everything look a little nostalgic.
When I step into the dining room, the sight of my mother brings a smile to my face.
She gasps the second she sees me, eyes wide behind her reading glasses. “Blair!”
Her arms are already open, and I rush into them. Her hug is soft and warm, and she still wears the same lavender perfume she’s used since I was twelve. Instantly, I’m back in high school, running late, watching her pack my lunch and scold me about forgetting my gym shoes.
“You look so chic,” she says, brushing a crumb off my shoulder like she’s trying to clean up my whole life. “Like one of those girls on TV,” she continues, making me chuckle.
“God, I missed you,” I say, hugging her again.
“I missed you, too, honey.”
My mom is in her sixties now, her strawberry-blonde hair cropped short and frizzing at the temples. Her sweater has a stain on the cuff, probably from cooking. She used to work asa school secretary at the local elementary school and still volunteers there sometimes, mostly to keep from going stir-crazy.
My dad, Paul, used to do carpentry, handyman stuff, mostly. Built half the neighborhood’s shelves and patched more than one leaking roof. He retired a few years ago, though he still picks up odd jobs to feel useful. They’re not rich, never have been, but they’ve always been proud, stubborn, and big on secondhand charm.
Abigail’s voice slices into the warmth. “Where’s Calvin? I thought you came together?”
Before I can answer, that smooth baritone cuts through the room.
“I’m here,” Calvin says, stepping into the doorway like he owns it. His presence commands attention, even here in a room filled with clutter and love and memories older than me. “I had to take a call,” he adds, tucking his phone away, “but I’ve turned it off.” He offers Abigail a tight smile. “I’m all yours.”
My mother eyes him with polite interest, that look she gives when she’s still deciding if she likes someone. My father gives him a firm nod, familiar but still assessing. Abigail, of course, glows like a chandelier.
I swallow hard. The last ten minutes in that car still sizzle against my skin, no matter how hard I try to shake them off.
“Mom, Dad,” Abigail says brightly, looping her arm through Calvin’s, “you remember Calvin, my fiancé.”
“Of course,” my mother says, smiling as she wipes her hands on a dishtowel. “So nice to finally have you over properly, Calvin. Last time was such a rush.”
Calvin takes her hand. “It’s lovely to see you again, Mrs. Miller. I’ve been looking forward to this.”
Dad steps forward, offering a firm handshake. “Calvin, welcome to our home.”
“It’s a pleasure to be here, thank you for inviting me,” he returns with equal steadiness.
“Come on, let’s eat before it gets cold,” Mom says, ushering everyone toward the dining room before Dad starts his usual twenty questions.
Chairs scrape softly against the hardwood as we take our seats. Abigail sits beside Calvin, her hand brushing his arm every few seconds like she can’t help herself. My parents take their places at either end, Dad already reaching for the breadbasket, Mom fussing with the napkins.
