“Mom,” I said, watching the headlights slow in front of the mailbox, “you’re going to have to—”
“—turn around.”
The words came out so calm that for a second I almost didn’t recognize my own voice.
On the other end, my mother made a small confused sound, the kind she always used when she wanted me to rush in and fix whatever discomfort she had decided was mine to handle.
Behind her, I could hear kids talking, a fast-food bag crinkling, and Chris saying something about being hungry.
“What do you mean, turn around?” she snapped.
“Emily, don’t start this. We are almost there.”
I looked around the empty living room.
No tree.
No couch.
No guest blankets folded at the end of the hall.
Just clean baseboards, bare walls, and the echo of a house that had finally stopped asking me to apologize for owning it.
