Threads of Destiny

19

Appie came home for the spring break, bouncing through the front door as if she had been away for years instead of months. The whole house seemed to brighten with her return. Her parents had taken time off just for her, determined to spend every day together, and Appie had a list of things she wanted to do as soon as she set her bag down.

They retraced the steps of her childhood, spring traditions that had once been hers alone. One morning, they set out for the riverside, where she used to drag them when she was small, demanding they watch her “beat her own record” skipping stones. She still squealed when she got one to bounce more than three times, laughing so hard her father pretended to be impressed as if it were the greatest athletic achievement in the world.

Afternoons were for the park. The swings were still there, though smaller now under her height, but she ran to them anyway, daring her mother to push her like before. “Higher, higher!” she cried, kicking her legs and tilting her head back, her laughter scattering into the wind. They stopped for ice cream afterwards—same vendor, same flavors. Her mother got her usual pistachio, her father tried something new, and Appie insisted on tasting both before declaring hers the best.

They went to the street vendors she loved, the ones tucked in busy corners, eating fried snacks that came wrapped in paper, hands oily, lips salty, laughing when they burned their tongues. Appie said the food tasted exactly the same, and her father teased that it was probably the oil from twenty years ago still lingering in the pans.

Evenings were slower, softer. They sat together in the little garden behind the house, her parents sipping tea while she sprawled on the grass, watching the sky change colors. Her mother asked about friends, her father tried to understand the chaos of her semester, and Appie told them everything—stories spilling out one after another, exaggerated, energetic, the way she always did. They laughed more than they listened, but that was enough.

It felt like she had never left. Like spring had simply been waiting for her to come home so it could begin.

---

One evening, after another long day of Appie dragging them from one old memory to the next, they sat together at the dinner table, the windows open to the warm spring air. Her mother was watching her more closely than usual, a little smile tugging at her lips.

“You’ve changed,” her mother said suddenly.

Appie froze with a forkful of food halfway to her mouth. “Changed? How? What do you mean?”

Her father chuckled, but he nodded in agreement. “She’s right. Something about you feels… different.”

Appie set her fork down and leaned forward, eyes narrowing, lips curved in mock suspicion. “Different how? Taller? Prettier? Wiser? Don’t be vague—tell me exactly.”

They exchanged a glance, the kind that only parents could. Her mother shrugged. “Not taller. Definitely not quieter.”

Her father added, “Maybe a little steadier. Like you’re… carrying something with you. Not in a bad way. Just—it’s there.”

Appie groaned and flopped back in her chair, arms spread wide. “So mysterious! You can’t just drop a comment like that and then not explain!”

Her mother reached across the table to tap her hand gently. “We don’t know if we can. It’s just a feeling. You’re still our Appie. Just… more.”

Appie blinked, caught off guard by the softness in her mother’s voice. She tried to laugh it off, to wave away the thought, but something in her parents’ expressions made her pause. She puffed out her cheeks, then leaned forward again, pointing her fork at them like a weapon.

“Well, until you figure out exactly what’s different, I refuse to believe it. I am the same delightful, unstoppable whirlwind I’ve always been.”

They laughed, and the moment slipped back into the usual warmth of dinner, but somewhere inside her, Appie wondered what they had seen that she herself hadn’t noticed yet.

---

Over the next few days, Appie’s parents kept exchanging knowing glances. They didn’t say anything more, but she caught them watching her closely. She teased them about staring, but they only smiled, as if waiting for something to fall into place.

On the last night of her break, they had a special dinner together—just the three of them, like when she was younger. Midway through the meal, her mother put down her fork and leaned in.

“We figured it out,” she said.

Appie raised her eyebrows dramatically. “Oh? My grand transformation revealed at last? Do tell.”

Her father pointed to her hands. “Your fingers,” he said. “They’re always moving. Dancing in the air. Like you’re playing invisible keys.”

Appie blinked, glancing down at her hands. They were, in fact, twitching softly on the tablecloth. She quickly clasped them together in her lap. “That’s just fidgeting,” she said too quickly.

Her mother shook her head. “No, it’s different. You’ve never done it before. And there’s something else, too. You’re… quieter. Slower. You still laugh, you still run ahead of us—but now you stop. You listen more.”

Appie tilted her head, lips curling into a mischievous smile. “So? What’s your grand theory?”

Her father exchanged a smile with her mother before looking at Appie. “Who is it?” he asked softly.

The fork slipped in her hand. She caught it before it clattered onto the plate. A flush crept up her cheeks, and for the first time all week, she had no words.

She didn’t answer. She only poked at her food, lips pressed together. Her parents saw the silence and respected it. They didn’t ask again.

Instead, her mother reached across the table, squeezing her hand. “Whoever it is, they’ve brought something good out in you. That’s enough for us.”

Appie smiled faintly, eyes lowering to her plate. She didn’t deny it.