I turn onto Maple Street and my breath catches. There it is. The white two-story house with the wraparound porch. The oak tree in the front yard where I used to climb as a kid.
Home.
I park across the street and cut the engine. My hands grip the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white. Through the front window, I can see movement inside. My mother, probably.
Is my father in there too? Sitting in his recliner, dying, wondering if I'll actually show up?
I sit in the car, staring at the house where I grew up, unable to make myself move.
3
MIA
I sit in my car across the street from the white two-story house with the wraparound porch, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles have turned bone white. The oak tree in the front yard looks exactly the same as it did when I'd left. I used to climb that tree as a kid, perching on the thick branch that stretched toward my bedroom window, reading books and pretending I was somewhere else.
Through the front window, I can see movement inside. My mother, probably. Is my father in there, too?
I've been sitting here for twenty minutes. My phone shows three missed calls from Sarah, probably checking to make sure I haven't chickened out. The twins sent a video of them playing with her dog, their faces bright with laughter that makes my chest ache.
I can do this. I have to do this.
I cut the engine and force myself out of the car. My legs feel unsteady as I cross the street. The walkway leading to the front door is lined with my mother's roses, perfectly maintaineddespite everything falling apart inside. That's so like her. Keep the exterior beautiful while the interior crumbles.
I raise my hand to knock, but the door swings open before my knuckles make contact.
"Mia." My mother's voice breaks on my name.
Linda Wilson looks older than I expected. Her light brown hair has more gray threaded through it, and the lines around her eyes have deepened. But her warm brown eyes are the same, filling with tears as she takes me in.
"Mom," I manage before she pulls me into her arms.
She smells like vanilla and lavender, exactly as I remember. Her embrace is tight and desperate, and I feel the years of distance collapsing between us. My own tears come hot and fast, soaking into her cardigan.
"I'm so glad you're here," she whispers against my hair. "I've missed you so much."
"I've missed you, too."
She pulls back, cupping my face in her hands. Her fingers are cool against my flushed cheeks. "Let me look at you. You're so beautiful. You look just like you did when you left, but different somehow. More grown up."
"I am grown up, Mom. I'm twenty-seven."
"I know." Her smile wavers. "I just wish I'd been there to see it happen."
Guilt twists through me. "I'm sorry."
"Don't." She shakes her head firmly. "Not yet. Come inside first."
I follow her through the doorway into the house where I grew up. Everything looks frozen in time. The same floral wallpaper in the entryway. The same family photos lining the staircase wall, though they stop abruptly at my high school graduation. The same cream-colored carpet that my mother always worried about staining.
The house smells like cinnamon and coffee, comforting and familiar in a way that makes my throat tight.
"He's in the living room," my mother says quietly, her hand finding mine. "He's having a good day today. Well, as good as they get anymore."
She leads me down the hallway. My heart hammers against my ribs with each step. I can hear the television playing softly, some news program my father always watched.
We turn the corner into the living room, and there he is.
Robert Wilson sits in his recliner by the window, and the sight of him steals my breath. He's diminished. That's the only word for it. The man who used to seem so large and imposing, who commanded respect as fire chief for thirty years, looks small and fragile in his chair. His once-powerful build has withered, his clothes hanging loose on his frame. His dark hair, now mostly gray, is thinner than I remember. But his blue eyes are the same shade as mine, and when they land on me, they're sharp and cold.
