“It’s been ten years, Clay,” I say. The tears I’ve been fighting back finally win, sliding down my cheek, one after the other.
Clay leans forward and presses a kiss against my forehead, his beard scratching against my skin as he squeezes me tightly in one of the delicious bear hugs I love so much. “Exactly. A lot can change in ten years.” He pulls away and grins down at me. “Now, come on. Let’s go see if your parents have managed to pull their heads out of their asses over the past decade.”
I choke out a laugh, and follow along behind him as he clutches my hand tightly in his. Together, we approach the door to my childhood home. It hasn’t changed in ten years; not a single thing is different. Part of me had wondered, maybe even hoped, that they didn’t live here anymore. That they had finally sold this house and moved to the lake like my father had talked about for as long as I can remember. One look through the long window beside the door tells me that they did not. I can see the same familiar pictures lining the hallway, the decades old coat rack standing off to the right, and my father’s briefcase sitting near the door, ready for him to take to work with him on Monday.
Clay gives my hand an encouraging squeeze and whispers, “Ring the bell, Soph.”
My knees feel weak and my hand shakes as my finger inches toward the doorbell. What if they don’t want to see me? What if my father slams the door in our faces? I look back at Clay and bite down on my lip.
“You got this, babe. Ring the bell.”
Turning back to the door, I squeeze my eyes closed and push the button quickly, before I can talk myself out of it. I hear the familiar chimes ringing the same old annoying melody throughout the house. A few moments later, a shadow approaches through the window.
Oh God.
When the door opens, I can’t move. I stand frozen in place, my face likely mirroring the shock I see on my mother’s.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, emotion choking my words.
Peggy Winslow had always been a tiny little woman with long, wavy hair, which was one of her best features. She was only forty years old the last time I saw her, and now, at fifty, she looks aged and tired. Fine lines fan out from the corners of her soft green eyes, and her hair is now short, sprinkled with gray. Even with the signs of aging, she still looks as beautiful as I remember.
I watch, frozen in place as she gasps, her hand fluttering up to her parted lips. She blinks back at me for what feels like the longest few seconds of my life, and then a disbelieving smile slowly takes over her face. Before I know it, I’m in her arms, her body swaying us side to side. I can feel her chest heaving as she sobs into my hair, but she says nothing.
I don’t want it to end. I have wanted this for so long, to be back at the home I grew up in, feeling the love from my mother and father that once ran so deep, I’d had no need to doubt it. I squeeze her back, my own tears darkening a spot on her cashmere sweater. My heart feels the relief of being back in the arms of the woman that used to rock me to sleep and comfort me when I had a bad dream.
“Who’s there?” a voice booms from down the hall. My father. Still a hard-ass, son of a bitch after all this time. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my father, and I still do. Before everything went to shit, I guess you could say I was something of a daddy’s girl. But that was long gone now. Now I had to face him, and if I know him as well as I think I do, he’s not going to make this easy on me, and he is definitely not going to make it easy on Clay.
My mother’s body jerks a little, her slight frame pulling away from mine before she clears her throat. She opens her mouth to answer, but seems to think better of it. Instead, she places her hands on either side of my face, pulling me closer to her. “I’m so glad you’re home, baby girl. God, I’ve missed you.” Her words are a whisper, but they shake with heartfelt emotion, causing a burning warmth to spread throughout my chest.
“Peg! Who’s at the—” And there he is. Standing behind my mother, my father’s eyes stare back at me, angry and hard. I watch as his body tenses, and his jaw clenches tight. He raises his hand and points right at me. “Leave,” he seethes, his face reddening with rage.
“John, no!” my mother cries, turning to stop his approach.
But he doesn’t listen. “You leave right now, and you take that trash boyfriend of yours with you.”
I stare back at him, pain filling my heart and my mind. This was a mistake. Turning, I move to walk away, and step directly into a brick wall, or that’s what it feels like.
“Actually, sir, I’m her trash husband now.”