Gage
My key barely makes it into the lock before the front door swings open like the house itself has been waiting to ambush me.
Warmth and perfume and Georgia sunshine energy hit me in the face in one fast-moving blur.
My mom launches into me with the kind of hug that had my body locked in for the impact. She smells like her lavender lotion and airport coffee and victory.
I catch her automatically—arms up, steadying—because I’ve been catching my mom my whole life. She hugs like she’s a practicing chiropractor.
“Hi, Mom,” I manage into her hair.
She squeezes tighter. “Hi, baby.”
I glance over her shoulder into my foyer and see my father behind her, with his fancy magnetic reading glasses on, like he’s arrived to rebuild my life personally one inspection at a time.
He lifts his chin at me, smiling the quiet way he does.
“Son.”
“Dad.”
Then my mom pulls back just enough to look me over like I’m a product she’s inspecting for damage.
And immediately—immediately—she says, bright and casual like she’s asking about the weather:
“So. How’s Reece?”
Of course.
Of course that’s the first thing out of her mouth.
Not How was work? Not Did you eat? Not Is your driveway still a glacier?
Reece.
My throat goes dry in a way that has nothing to do with the cold outside.
“I’m good,” I say, because I’m a coward.
My mom squints.
My dad’s mouth twitches, like he’s already entertained.
My mom tilts her head, eyes narrowing with affectionate suspicion. “That wasn’t my question.”
“I know,” I say carefully. “I’m… answering the part I can answer without being interrogated on my own porch.”
She laughs like I’m cute. Like I’m seven again and trying to lie about sneaking cookies.
“Don’t be dramatic,” she says. “We’re inside.”
She steps past me into the house like she still owns it, which is funny because this is technically my house now, but spiritually it will always belong to Susan Donovan’s sense of authority.
I follow her in, closing the door behind me. The air inside is warm—too warm. The lights are on. There’s a faint smell of something cinnamon-y that didn’t exist when I left this morning.
My dad sets the grocery bag on the kitchen counter with purpose. “We brought the good coffee,” he says, nodding toward it like it’s a peace offering.
My mom points at the bag. “And ingredients. Because I have concerns.”
“Concerns,” I repeat, toeing off my boots.
She looks around my living room like she’s assessing a bachelor habitat. “I’m just saying, you can’t feed guests with protein bars and morale.”
“I can,” I argue automatically.
My dad makes a low sound that might be agreement or amusement. “Your mother means well.”
“She means she’s about to reorganize my pantry,” I say.
My mom waves a hand. “If the pantry is innocent, it has nothing to fear.”
I take my coat off, hang it on the hook, and try to gather my brain back into something that resembles functional.
Because I walked into this house expecting quiet.
I walked into this house expecting an evening where I could stare at the wall and think about what I should say to Reece.
Instead, I walked into…
My parents.
In my house.
On a Wednesday.
With groceries.
And my mother asking about Reece like she hasn’t missed a single chapter of our lives.
My mom turns back to me, eyes bright. “We almost made it yesterday.”
“I heard,” I say.
She sighs dramatically. “Canceled flight. Airport chaos. Your father almost started a support group at Gate C.”
My dad lifts his brows. “It was a long delay.”
My mom points at him. “He made friends. He told a man his entire opinion on airline snacks.”
“I stand by my opinion,” my dad says calmly. “Pretzels are not a meal.”
“They’re not,” I agree, grateful for a topic that doesn’t involve Reece’s lips.
My mom claps once. “Okay! But we’re here now. And we are doing dinner tonight.”
“Tonight,” I repeat, mostly to anchor myself.
“Yes,” she says, thrilled. “Like old times. And don’t argue.”
“I wasn’t going to,” I say.
She gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe me.
My dad gives me a hug, because he now had room to do so and wanders into my living room, hands in his pockets, looking around with quiet nostalgia. “Feels the same,” he says.
“It does,” my mom agrees, and for a second her voice softens in a way that makes the whole thing hit me.
This house isn’t just a house to them.
It’s memories.
It’s a thousand small moments.
It’s kids running in and out between our yards.
It’s porch lights and board games and snow days and summer nights.
And now… it’s the setting for a dinner that might crack something open.
My mom’s eyes flick back to me, sharp again. “So,” she says, like we didn’t just have a sentimental beat. “I can’t wait for everyone to come by. Reece. How were her drafty windows during the storm?”
My stomach tightens.
Of course my mother would immediately ask about her windows.
My mother has always treated Reece like she’s an extension of my responsibility. Like caring for her is a given.
Which is part of why I’ve had an easier time hiding behind neighborly.
It wasn’t suspicious when I showed up. It was expected.
But now? Now I’m not sure anything is expected. Or safe.
“She’s… fine,” I say, because I’m still a coward.
My mom’s gaze narrows again. “That sounded like a lie wrapped in a professional tone.”
“It’s not a lie,” I say.
My dad sits on the edge of my couch, watching us with calm interest like this is an episode he’s seen before. “Susan,” he says gently.
“What?” my mom says. “I care.”
“I know,” my dad says. “Let him breathe.”
My mom sighs, but she backs off half an inch. Then she points at my shirt. “Did you eat today?”
“Yes,” I lie.
My dad’s mouth twitches again. “He didn’t.”
“I did,” I insist.
“What did you eat?” my mom demands.
I blink. “…coffee.”
My mom’s face shifts into triumphant disappointment. “I knew it.”
My dad pats the couch beside him like he’s inviting me to sit down and confess my sins.
I sit, because sitting feels safer than standing under my mother’s inspection beam.
My mom bounces into the kitchen like she’s already in hostess mode. “I’m making something simple,” she announces. “But good.”
“We have food,” I call after her.
“We have ingredients,” she corrects, already rummaging.
My dad leans toward me slightly, voice lower. “You okay?”
It’s simple. It’s my dad. It’s the kind of question that doesn’t demand performance.
My throat tightens anyway.
I exhale slowly. “Yeah.”
He holds my gaze like he doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t push.
My mom calls from the kitchen, “And don’t think you’re getting out of this by working in your office.”
“I wasn’t,” I say.
My dad gives me a look. You were.
I sigh.
My day had been long, and not because work was hard.
Work is always hard.
The hard part was doing it without her.
No car ride.
No platform spot.
No train seat.
No quiet rhythm that makes the city feel bearable.
Just empty space where Reece usually exists.
I’d answered emails, signed off on decisions, handled a vendor who didn’t understand the concept of “timeline,” and sat through a meeting where someone said “alignment” twelve times like it was a spell.
And the whole time my brain had been doing this:
She’s not here.
You scared her.
You pulled back.
She looked panicked.
She’s building walls.
You let her.
And now, instead of getting to talk to her—privately, quietly, like we deserve—
I have my parents in my house making cinnamon something and planning dinner like they’re reenacting 2009.
My mom breezes back into the living room, wiping her hands on a dish towel like she’s already completed three tasks. “Okay,” she says. “Update.”
I brace.
She points at the window. “Your driveway looks beautiful.”
“Thanks,” I say.
She points at me. “Your face looks tired.”
“Thanks,” I say again, because sarcasm is my only defense.
She points toward next door. “Reece is working from home today?”
My spine goes a fraction straighter.
I stare at her. “How do you know that?”
My mom’s smile turns innocent. “Linda told me.”
My chest tightens.
Linda and Patrick.
Reece’s parents.
The other half of this cheerful invasion.
My dad shifts beside me. “What time are they coming?”
My mom beams like she’s announcing a parade. “In a little bit. They were unpacking their things, getting settled, and washed up.”
My dad nods, approving. “Good. Your mother’s been narrating this dinner like it’s a holiday special.”
“It is a holiday special,” Mom says, offended. “It’s called All of Us Under One Roof Again—And That’s Worth Celebrating.”
Celebrating.
In my house.
With both sets of parents.
And Reece on her way.
My chest tightens again, not with panic exactly—something sharper.
Because “Reece on her way” is a sentence that used to mean normal.
It used to mean she’d walk in with a smile and a comment about my mother’s cooking and steal a piece of whatever was on the counter.
Now it means I’m going to have to look her in the eyes.
In front of people.
In front of the people who raised us.
In front of people who will absolutely notice every half-second hesitation.
My mom watches my face like she’s reading subtitles. “What?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say too fast.
My dad leans back, folding his hands. “It’s not nothing.”
I exhale through my nose. “It’s… a lot.”
My mom’s expression softens slightly. “Honey.”
That one word makes me ten years old again.
My dad’s voice stays calm. “What’s going on with you two?”
My stomach clenches.
If I say it out loud, it becomes real.
And I don’t know what real means yet.
So I do the thing I’m best at:
I dodge.
“Nothing’s going on,” I say.
My mother stares.
My father stares.
The silence stretches.
Then my mom smiles like she’s indulging me. “Okay,” she says. “Nothing is going on.”
Her tone says: Sure.
My dad’s eyes crinkle with quiet amusement. “Right.”
I glare at both of them. “Can we not do this?”
My mom claps her hands once. “We can absolutely do this.”
“That’s not what I meant.”