Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Scott
I grip my keys, my fingers tightening around the cool metal as I look out the window at my childhood home.
The two-story colonial stands just as it always has, with its white siding and navy-blue shutters, a place frozen in time.
The wraparound porch, where I spent countless summers watching fireflies dance in the twilight, still boasts the same wooden rocking chairs my mother insists are "too comfortable to replace. "
The front yard is perfectly manicured. It's always been my father's pride and joy.
The trimmed hedges line the cobblestone path leading up to the navy-blue door, the one that's been repainted more times than I can count but never strays from the same shade.
A wreath hangs on it, simple but elegant, a touch of my mother's love for seasonal decor.
Growing up, this house was my sanctuary. My safe place. Within these walls, I learned the meaning of home—not just in the physical sense but in the warmth of shared laughter, the comfort of routine, and the unwavering presence of family.
I remember curling up in the bay window with a book, my mother's voice drifting in from the kitchen as she hummed along to the radio while kneading dough.
She baked when she was happy, when she was stressed, and when she didn't know what else to do.
The scent of cinnamon and vanilla was as much a part of my childhood as bedtime stories and Saturday morning cartoons.
This was the house where my father taught me how to ride a bike, steady hands gripping the back of the seat as he ran beside me down the driveway, shouting encouragement until I finally wobbled forward on my own.
I can still hear the sound of my scraped knees being patched up in the bathroom, my mother's soft reassurances, and my father's gruff but comforting, "Toughen up, kid. You'll be fine."
On stormy nights, when thunder rattled the windows, and the power flickered, I would race downstairs to find my parents lighting candles.
We'd huddle together in the living room, my mother pulling out an old deck of cards while my father told stories about the past, filling the darkness with the warmth of his deep, steady voice.
Even as I grew older, when teenage arguments flared and doors were slammed in frustration, this house was still my refuge.
No matter how many times I left in anger, I always came back to find my mother waiting with a quiet understanding, a cup of tea, and my father's silent nod that told me all was forgiven.
This was home.
But will it still be after today?
The thought gnaws at my chest as I grip my keys a little tighter.
A lump rises in my throat, thick with uncertainty.
My parents have always been my anchor, my foundation.
But I know that today, I'm going to test the strength of that foundation.
What if it isn't strong enough, and today's the day it crumbles, and they let me go?
Taking a slow, unsteady breath, I step out of the car and swallow the lump in my throat. My pulse hammers as I walk up the familiar pathway and reach for the door handle. The weight of what I'm about to do settles heavily on my chest, but there's no turning back now.
My father sits in his favorite worn green recliner. His focus is on the Sunday afternoon football game.
The thought creeps in, insidious and tempting. My pulse pounds in my ears as I stand frozen in the entryway, my body screaming at me to turn around, to leave before I unravel everything. But I can't. I won't.
I swallow and push past the urge to retreat. "Hey, Dad."
My father glances over. "We weren't expecting you today, son."
My fingers tighten around my keys before I shove them into my pocket. "Yeah, I just thought I'd stop by." My voice comes out stilted, unsure, so I clear my throat and move further into the living room. "How's the game?"
Dad leans back in his chair, glancing at the now-muted television. "Third quarter. The defense is struggling. They need to stop playing soft."
I force a small chuckle as I lower myself onto the sofa. "Same story every season."
He snorts, shaking his head. "Damn right. You'd think they'd learn."
I nod along, letting the conversation settle over me like a well-worn blanket. The rhythm of normalcy, of safe topics, is almost comforting. For a fleeting second, I let myself pretend that this is just another visit. That I'm not about to drop something that will change everything.
But the moment is fragile, a bubble that's bound to pop.
I clasp my hands together to keep them steady, my gaze flickering to the hallway. "Where's Mom?"
"She's in the kitchen." Dad gestures. "She'll be thrilled to see you."
Thrilled. For now.
I swallow, my throat dry. "I have something I want to talk to you and Mom about."
Dad's attention shifts from the game entirely now. His brows draw together, and I can tell he's picking up on my unease. "Is everything okay?"
I force a tight smile. "Yeah. There's just something I want to tell you both."
Before he can press further, my mother steps into the room, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "You finally met someone?" she asks, her voice warm with excitement.
The air thickens around me. My heart stumbles.
I smile, though my chest feels tight. "Yeah, Ma. I did.
Her face lights up, just as I knew it would. I only wish I knew if that light would last.
"Did you bring her with you?"
"No, I didn't."
Her shoulders sag, but the excitement remains. "Next time, then. Come on in the kitchen, I'll put coffee on, and you can tell us all about her."
Dad stands and claps me on the shoulder. "You've made your mother very happy. She was starting to think you'd never settle down and give her grandchildren."
A tight knot forms in my stomach. I force a small smile, but my throat constricts, trapping the words I need to say.
Grandchildren.
It's an expectation so deeply ingrained, spoken with the kind of casual certainty that only comes from never questioning the path someone will take. A wife. A house. Kids. It's the future they've always imagined for me, the one they've pictured since I was a small boy.
I've never had the heart to tell them that their version of my life has never been mine.
That while my mother daydreamed about my wedding day, she never pictured the man standing at the end of the aisle as I did.
That while my father talked about teaching my future son how to throw a football, I've spent the last year wondering if he'd even speak to the man I love.
They don't know. Not yet.
And maybe, for a few more seconds, I can pretend that nothing is about to change.
I swallow hard and follow them into the kitchen, my stomach knotting with each step. I take several deep breaths, willing myself to keep it together.
Pulling out the chair, I lower myself onto the hard wooden seat.
The kitchen feels smaller than I remember, the walls seeming to inch closer, pressing in on me.
Mom moves around the kitchen with practiced ease, pulling mugs from the cabinet, her excitement still bubbling beneath the surface.
She hums softly under her breath as she fills the coffee pot, oblivious to the storm brewing inside me.
Dad settles across from me, his usual stoic presence grounding yet unnerving. He doesn't pry, but I can feel his quiet curiosity, the way his gaze lingers a little longer than usual.
I let my mind drift back to the beginning, to the first time I saw Harrison. To the easy smile that had drawn me in before I even realized I was staring.
I think about how simple, how effortless it had been at that moment. How different it feels now, sitting here, about to unravel everything.
Mom turns, setting a steaming mug of coffee in front of me. "So," she says, sitting down beside Dad, hands folded neatly on the table. Her eyes shine with eager curiosity. "Tell us everything."
I wrap my hands around the mug, feeling its warmth seep into my fingers.
I've prepared for this.
I know exactly what I want to say. But as I open my mouth, my throat goes dry. My heartbeat pounds in my ears.
Because no amount of preparation can shield me from the reality that after today, after these words leave my lips, nothing will ever be the same.