The rain began just as I turned onto the gravel road leading to my parents’ house. It wasn’t a storm, just a quiet, steady drizzle that tapped against the windshield like hesitant fingers, unsure whether they were welcome. The tires crunched beneath me as I slowed, the familiar sound stirring memories I hadn’t touched in years.
The house appeared exactly as it always had. Pale blue siding, white trim, the porch light glowing warmly against the gray afternoon. Wind chimes swayed gently, clinking in the breeze.
Everything looked unchanged, preserved in a way that felt almost unreal. Like time had stopped here. But I hadn’t.
At thirty, I felt older than I ever imagined I would. My heart was fractured, split down the middle by betrayal I never saw coming. A single suitcase rested in the back seat everything I had managed to bring with me.
No job. No apartment. No real plan.
Just a truth I couldn’t ignore anymore and a need to be somewhere familiar, even if it hurt. I hadn’t called ahead. I couldn’t bring myself to.
I was afraid that if I heard their voices, I’d lose my nerve and turn the car around. So I parked, sat for a moment, and breathed through the tightness in my chest. Before I could even step onto the porch, the front door opened.
“Marianne,” my mother breathed, her voice catching as if she wasn’t quite sure I was real. She hurried forward and wrapped me in her arms, holding me with the same instinctive urgency she had when I was a child waking from a nightmare. “Come inside,” she murmured.
“You’re soaked.”
I held onto her longer than I meant to, my face pressed against her shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of laundry soap and cinnamon. Inside, the house felt warm and heavy with memory. The living room smelled of old books and polished wood.
Everything was in its place, family photos lining the mantle, crocheted blankets folded just so. My father sat in his recliner, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the television. He didn’t look at me.
“You don’t call anymore,” he said, his voice flat. “Henry,” my mother warned softly. “I didn’t know where else to go,” I replied.
He grunted but said nothing more. “I left my husband,” I added, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. “Jonah cheated on me.
For months.”
My mother froze, just for a heartbeat. Then she nodded and guided me toward the kitchen. “Sit down,” she said.
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