Page 59 of Coming Home

"You cannot use my brother as a personal cleanup crew for your romantic outbursts, Ralph."

"Watch me, girlfriend. That's literally what I pay his retainer for."

* * *

Saturday arrived with the violent velocity of a freight train.

"I can't do this," I whispered, staring at the suburban streets.

"You can do this, Ems. And you won't throw up."

"What if they're furiously angry with me? What if the silence ruined it?"

"They aren't angry."

"What if I see disappointment in my dad's eyes, Ralph? I won't survive that."

"Emma, look at me." He pulled the truck smoothly up to the curb, idling in front of the white Craftsman house I had spent eighteen years of my life inside. The blue front door was exactly the same. The porch where I used to do my geometry homework was bathed in the warm, golden light of the late-afternoon sun. I could see shadows moving behind the frosted glass of the living room window.

Ralph turned off the engine, reaching over to gently pry my frozen fingers from the seatbelt. "There's no anger in that house, Emma. Everybody in there just wants you back. Now get out of the truck."

My legs wouldn't stop shaking as my boots hit the concrete path. Ralph walked beside me, easily carrying the small mountain of department store bags in one hand and the premium bourbon in the other, his massive shoulder providing a physical wall between me and the rest of the world.

He reached out and pressed the brass doorbell because my own hand flatly refused to cooperate.

The lock turned. The door swung open.

My mother stood in the frame.

The breath caught in my throat. She looked older—noticeably truer to her years than when I'd last seen her. A heavy streak of silver ran through her dark hair, and her eyes—the exact same shade of pale blue as mine—widened until they looked like glass.

Her hand shot to her mouth. A sound tore from her throat. Before I could even say her name, she lunged forward, throwing her arms around my neck and pulling me against her chest so hard the air left my lungs in one sharp gasp.

"My baby," she wept, her hands frantically gripping my hair, my back, my shoulders, as if checking to ensure I was solid matter. "My baby, my baby... you're here. You're home."

I broke. The tears poured down my face, hot and fast, as I buried my face into the familiar, comforting scent of her lavender perfume. We held each other on the threshold, sobbing in the open afternoon air, while Ralph stood a respectful two paces behind me, holding four oversized shopping bags and a bottle of liquor, intensely studying the craftsmanship of the porch railing to give us a shred of privacy.

"Let her inside, Bailey," a deep voice commanded from the shadows of the hallway.

My father appeared behind my mother. He was grayer too, his frame slightly thinner than I remembered, wearing the tortoise-shell reading glasses I used to routinely steal off his nightstand as a teenager. He stood in the hallway, and his face broke as he studied me. Then his long arms opened wide.

I bypassed my mother and walked straight into his chest. He slammed his arms around my back, lifting me slightly off my feet, and held me for a full, unbroken minute without uttering a single syllable.

"Happy birthday, Dad," I choked out against his shoulder.

"Best damn gift I've ever received in my sixty-five years," he whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears. He squeezed me until my ribs popped. "Don't you ever do that to me again, Emma. Do you hear me? Never again."

Before the tears could take over the house, a tiny, loud hurricane blasted out of the living room.

"I'm officially a yellow belt in Taekwondo!" Abbie announced at the top of her lungs, skidding to a halt on the hardwood. "Watch this, Auntie Emma!"

She executed a spinning heel kick that was technically impressive but spatially catastrophic. Her small foot sailed within three inches of an antique stained-glass table lamp that had survived three generations of family chaos.

"The lamp!" my mother shrieked, lunging left.

"The child!" my father bellowed, grabbing Abbie by her belt midair.

Ralph's athletic reflexes fired on instinct; his arm shot out, catching the bottle of bourbon as it nearly slipped from his grip during the melee.