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 maintained despite 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.
"So you actually came." His voice is rough, lacking the warmth I remember from childhood.
"Dad." I take a tentative step forward. "I came as soon as Mom called."
"Nine years too late."
The words hit like a slap. My mother's hand tightens on mine.
"Robert, please," she says softly. "She's here now. That's what matters."
"Is it?" He shifts in his recliner, wincing slightly. "Why did you bother coming back, Mia? Guilty conscience finally catch up with you?"
I swallow hard. "I wanted to see you. To talk to you."
"Talk." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You didn't want to talk before you disappeared in the middle of the night. You didn't want to talk during all those years you were gone. But now that I'm dying, suddenly you want to talk?"
"That's not fair."
"Fair?" His voice rises, then breaks into a cough. My mother moves toward him but he waves her off. "You want to talk about fair? You left without a word. No explanation. No goodbye. Just a note that said nothing. Do you have any idea what that did to your mother? To me?"
Tears burn behind my eyes. "I had reasons."
"Reasons." He spits the word like it's poison. "What reasons could possibly justify abandoning your family? We gave you everything. A good home. A good education. We supported you in everything you wanted to do. And you repaid us by running away like we meant nothing to you."
"You don't understand."
"Then explain it to me." He leans forward, his eyes boring into mine. "Tell me what was so terrible that you had to leave in the middle of the night and never come back. Tell me what we did that was so unforgivable."
I open my mouth but no words come out. How can I explain? How can I tell him that I left because I was pregnant with his best friend's baby? That I was terrified of destroying his friendship with Jack, of disappointing him, of watching everything fall apart?
"I can't," I whisper.
"Can't or won't?"
"Robert, that's enough." My mother's voice is firm. "She's here now. That should count for something."
"Should it?" He sits back, his expression bitter. "She threw away her future. She had a full scholarship to State. She could have done anything with her life. Instead, she disappeared and did what? Where have you been, Mia? What have you been doing all this time?"
"I've been teaching," I say quietly. "I got my degree. I have a job."
"Teaching." He shakes his head. "You could have taught here. You could have built a life here, near your family. But you chose to stay away."
"I had my reasons," I repeat, hating how weak it sounds.
"Your reasons." His jaw tightens. "Nothing justifies what you did. Nothing. You broke your mother's heart. You broke mine. And for what?"
The tears spill over now, hot tracks down my cheeks. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry doesn't fix it, Mia. Sorry doesn't give us back the time we lost."
"I know." My voice cracks. "I know it doesn't. But I'm here now. I want to try to make things right."
"Make things right." He laughs again, that same hollow sound. "How exactly do you plan to do that? I'm dying, Mia. Stage four pancreatic cancer. Six months, maybe less. You think a few visits before I die will make up for the silence?"
"I don't know." I wipe at my tears with shaking hands. "But I have to try."
He studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he waves his hand dismissively. "I'm tired. I need to rest."
"Robert," my mother protests.
"I said I'm tired, Linda." His tone leaves no room for argument.
My mother looks between us, her face creased with worry and disappointment. "Mia, why don't we go to the kitchen? I'll make us some tea."
I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. I follow her out of the living room, feeling my father's cold gaze on my back until we turn the corner.
In the kitchen, my mother busies herself with the kettle while I sink into a chair at the table. This room looks the same, too. The same yellow curtains. The same ceramic rooster collection on the windowsill. The same table where I did my homework every night.
"I'm sorry," my mother says, her back to me as she fills the kettle. "He's been so angry since I told him you were coming. I thought seeing you might soften him, but ..."
"It's okay, Mom. I understand."
"Do you?" She turns to face me, her eyes red-rimmed. "Do you understand what it's been like? Watching him waste away, knowing he's dying, and carrying the weight of your absence on top of everything else?"
"I never meant to hurt you."
"But you did." Her voice is gentle but firm. "You hurt us both. And I've kept your secrets, Mia. I've lied to your father about where you were, about whether I'd heard from you. I've carried that guilt every single day."
"I know. I'm so sorry."
She crosses to the table and sits across from me, reaching for my hands. "I love you. I never stopped loving you. But you need to understand that this won't be easy. Your father is stubborn and proud, and he's dying. He doesn't have time for slow reconciliation."
"What should I do?"
"Give him time. Keep showing up. Let him see that you're serious about being here." She squeezes my hands. "And focus on your new job. You start tomorrow at Riverside Academy, right?"
"Yes. Tomorrow morning."
"That's good. That's something positive to focus on while you work on things with your father." She manages a small smile. "I'm proud of you for becoming a teacher. That's what you always wanted."
"Thanks, Mom."
We sit in silence for a moment, the kettle beginning to whistle softly on the stove. My mother stands to tend to it, and I watch her move around the kitchen with practiced ease. She looks tired. Worn down by years of keeping secrets and managing my father's illness.
When I finally stand to leave, my mother walks me to the door. She hugs me tightly, whispering in my ear, "Don't give up on him. Please. He needs you, even if he can't admit it yet."
"I won't give up," I promise.
I walk back to my car on unsteady legs, my emotions a tangled mess of grief, guilt, and fragile hope.
The reunion was worse than I'd imagined but also exactly what I'd expected.
My father's anger is justified. I abandoned them.
I broke their hearts. And now I'm back, asking for forgiveness I'm not sure I deserve.
I slide into the driver's seat and sit there for a moment, staring at the house. Through the window, I can see my mother moving around inside. My father is probably still in his recliner, angry and bitter and dying.
I start the engine and pull away from the curb, watching the house disappear in my rearview mirror. Tomorrow I start my new job. Tomorrow I face whatever comes next. But tonight, I just need to survive the weight of my father's rejection.
My phone buzzes in the cup holder. I glance down at the screen and see an email notification. The subject line makes my stomach drop: "Welcome to Riverside Academy."
I pull over to the side of the road and open the email with trembling fingers. It's a simple greeting, but with a message to meet with the principal first thing in the morning.