One truck was close enough to the porch that it partially blocked the walkway.
I slowed down.
Music carried from the backyard. Children were shouting. Someone had left a cooler near the front steps.
For a moment, I wondered whether I had driven to the wrong house after too many hours on the road.
Then I saw the small mark near the porch railing where I had scraped the wood while moving a chair the previous summer.
It was my house.
I parked near the edge of the driveway, took my duffel bag from the passenger seat, and walked toward the front door.
The closer I got, the more details I noticed.
Shoes were scattered near the porch. Grocery bags sat against the wall. Someone had moved one of my outdoor tables. A child ran past the window holding a towel I recognized from the upstairs bathroom.
The front door was open.
