Chapter Two- Come Home
1146 Words
The drive back to Maplewood should have felt familiar. It didn’t. As the rental car curved along winding suburban roads framed by old trees and weather-worn fences, Sophia felt like she was approaching someone else’s past—a ghost returning to haunt the living. The skies were overcast, thick with late autumn gray, and the air was laced with the scent of damp leaves and woodsmoke. She turned down the music. Silence made it easier to think. Or maybe harder. She wasn’t sure anymore.
The last time she’d driven this road was four years ago. Her father’s funeral. The day she left without looking back, angry and numb, still raw from the loss and the words left unsaid between her and Zoe. Back then, Amelia was a sullen teenager, and Ryan was barely out of middle school. Now? She didn’t even know what kind of people they’d become.
Her phone buzzed beside her. A message from Christopher.
> Let me know when you get there. Call me before bed. Love you.
She stared at the text until the screen dimmed.
No “I miss you.” No “I’m proud of you for doing this.” Just the quiet command of being accounted for. Still, she typed back:
> I will.
She hit send and dropped the phone into her bag, stuffing the guilt that followed into a familiar box deep in her chest.
Zoe’s house hadn’t changed much. The paint on the front porch had faded more, and the garden looked less manicured than it used to. But the house still stood like it had something to prove—strong, proud, a little weathered, but not defeated.
Sophia parked by the curb and sat for a moment, staring at the front door.
You came back. You actually did it.
She grabbed her bag and walked up the steps, heart thudding hard in her chest. Before she could knock, the door swung open.
Zoe stood there, arms crossed, wrapped in a forest green cardigan, her dark curls pinned back in a loose bun. She looked older than Sophia remembered—but not weaker. If anything, she looked tougher. Like life had required her to harden in the years since they'd last spoken.
“You cut your hair,” Zoe said quietly.
Sophia gave a small nod. “You haven’t.”
A beat passed. Then Zoe stepped aside. “Come in.”
The inside smelled like cinnamon and old books. The walls were still painted a warm ochre, the living room couch still draped with that ugly crochet blanket Sophia hated as a kid. She found herself oddly comforted by it.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Zoe said, leading her toward the kitchen.
“I wasn’t either,” Sophia admitted.
They sat across from each other at the kitchen table. A teakettle whistled on the stove, and Zoe busied herself pouring two mugs.
“I wasn’t trying to ambush you with that text,” Zoe said, sliding a cup over. “But we’ve been... struggling.”
Sophia sipped. Chamomile. Of course. “Financially?”
Zoe’s eyes flicked toward her. “Among other things.”
She reached into a drawer and pulled out a stack of envelopes—bills, collection notices, late fees. Sophia’s heart sank.
“I’ve picked up extra shifts at the school, but Amelia’s applying to colleges, and Ryan needs tutoring. The insurance from your father’s policy is gone.”
“I thought that would last longer.”
“So did I,” Zoe said bitterly. “But grief doesn’t pause your mortgage. And I didn’t know how to ask for help before now.”
Sophia exhaled. “I can help.”
Zoe shook her head quickly. “That’s not why I asked you to come. I mean, yes—things are tight. But I need you here for them. For Amelia. For Ryan. They need their sister. Even if they won’t admit it.”
Sophia looked down at her mug. “I don’t know if I’m the person they remember. I don’t even know if I’m the person "I" remember.”
“They don’t need perfection,” Zoe said gently. “They just need-you.”
A door slammed upstairs. Loud footsteps followed. Zoe stood. “Speak of the devil.”
A moment later, Amelia came into view—eighteen, taller than Sophia remembered, with thick braids and a sarcastic glare already locked in place.
“Oh,” Amelia said flatly. “She’s here.” Sophia blinked. “Hi, Amelia.”
“You actually came. Wow.”
“Amelia—” Zoe warned.
But the teenager waved her off. “It’s fine. Just didn’t expect her to show up unless someone died again.” Sophia’s stomach turned.
Zoe looked exhausted. “Go upstairs, please.”
“No, it’s okay,” Sophia said quietly. “She’s not wrong.”
Amelia stormed off without another word.
Sophia sat back down, her hands suddenly cold. “She hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you. She’s hurt. She doesn’t understand why you stayed away so long.”
Neither do I, Sophia wanted to say.
Instead she asked, “What about Ryan?”
“He’s quieter about it,” Zoe said. “But he’s been acting out. Skipping classes. Pulling back. I think part of him still believes you’ll leave again, so he doesn’t want to care.”
Sophia nodded slowly. “And what about you? Are you still mad?”
Zoe met her eyes. “I was. For a long time. But losing your father broke us all in different ways. I see that now.”
The silence between them wasn’t cruel anymore—it was tired. Worn thin.
Zoe reached across the table and touched her hand. “You’re here now. That's what matters.”
Sophia swallowed the lump in her throat. “I want to help. However I can.”
“You being here is a start.”
That night, Sophia lay awake in her old bedroom—walls still painted pale blue, the bookshelf lined with forgotten paperbacks and dusty trophies. Everything looked smaller now. The bed. The room. Her dreams.
She scrolled through her phone, thumb hovering over Christopher’s number. She didn’t want to talk to him. But she was too tired to fight.
She called.
“Hey,” his voice came through, low and smooth. “You get there okay?”
“Yeah,” she whispered. “I’m here.”
“I miss you.”
She closed her eyes. “I miss you too.”
It wasn’t true. But it was easier than explaining the heaviness in her chest.
They hung up a few minutes later, after the usual script of "I love yous" and "goodnights". The call ended. The silence returned.
Sophia lay back and stared at the ceiling.
She had come home.
But she didn’t feel at home yet.
- Writer
