Holy Sins

The House That Waited

AERIS

The drive back to Larkhaven was a goddamn nightmare. Four hours of nothing but my own thoughts, no music, no podcasts, just the hum of tires on asphalt and Philip’s face flashing in my head every time I blinked.

Every exit sign felt like another mile closer to home the real one. Not that fancy city s**t where we lived with its stupid high-rises and fake people. Nope. This was small-town real: dirt roads, churches with steeples too tall for their purpose, neighbors who stared through curtains but wouldn’t say s**t if you burned your house down.

I hated how familiar it all looked when I finally rolled past that crooked-ass "Welcome to Larkhaven" sign at 3:47 PM.

My chest tightened before I even saw Mom’s street before any faces appeared outside windows or porch lights flickered on like nosy beacons warning everyone inside: She’s here.

And sure enough…

Mrs. Whitcombe stood watering her damn hydrangeas like she had all day (she did), eyes locked onto my car the second it turned onto Maple Lane.

Two church ladies huddled near Mom's mailbox whispering behind gloved hands those plastic-ass sympathy smiles already painted across their wrinkly faces.

Before they could swarm me? My mom burst out the front door barefoot in pajama pants and an oversized sweater hair messy from napping earlier arms wide open as hell.

“Aeris,” she said loud enough for half the block probably heard,and then yanked me into a hug so hard my suitcase almost tipped over right there on pavement

The hug hit like a truck Mom’s arms locked around me, tight and warm, that same vanilla-and-detergent smell hitting my nose like I was ten years old again. She didn’t say anything else. Just held on.

And for the first time since Philip’s body was lowered into the ground?

I almost broke.

But I didn't cry, not right there in front of Mrs. Whitcombe and those judgmental church ladies who were absolutely memorizing every second of this scene to gossip about later at Bible study.

Mom finally let go just enough to cup my face in her hands, her eyes scanning mine like she could see all the s**t I hadn't slept through or eaten through or cried over yet.

"You look exhausted," she said quietly, no pity, just truth straight up, no chaser.

"Yeah," is all I managed before glancing past her shoulder at those two women still lingering near the mailbox with their fake-ass concerned faces on display for God and everyone else.

One opened their mouth, probably gonna ask some dumb question…

How are you holding up? Was it sudden? Did he suffer?

Some stupid Christian platitude crap…

But Mom turned fast as hell

“Ladies,” she said flatly but not unkindly either, the tone that meant get lost now, “ we're good.”

The two women froze for a split second like deer in headlights before catching the go away vibe radiating off my mom.

One of them, Mrs. Callahan from down the street, opened her mouth like she was gonna say something anyway..

Mom didn’t even raise her voice. Just tilted her head slightly and gave them that look the same one she used when I was sixteen and brought home some punk with piercings who looked like he sold weed out of his trunk.

They got it.

Instantly.

“Oh! Right… sorry,” Mrs. Callahan mumbled, clutching her purse to her chest like a shield before turning back toward their porch across the road.

The other lady shot me one last glance half-pity, half-curiosity then scurried after her friend without another word.

Silence settled again as soon as their heels hit concrete going away.

Mom exhaled through her nose and finally turned fully back to me.

Then without asking. She grabbed my suitcase handle with one hand,and wrapped an arm around my shoulders with the other,guiding me up toward the house fast as if speed could keep prying eyes from sticking further into our business today.

The front door clicked shut behind us solid, heavy wood that blocked out the world.

Mom didn’t say anything. Just dropped my suitcase by the stairs and kicked off her slippers, then turned back to me with that same quiet intensity she’d had since I was a kid and came home crying over some boy who broke my heart in middle school.

She studied me for a second like she could see every sleepless night, every tear I hadn't cried yet, every rage-filled thought about Philip rotting in his grave while some blonde stranger probably still wore his cologne on her skin.

Then she reached up… gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear…

And pulled me into another hug. Tighter this time. Deeper.

No words.

Just warmth.

Her heartbeat steady against mine through the sweater fabric.

For once?

I didn't feel strong.

I didn't have to pretend I wasn’t breaking inside.

I just leaned into it and let myself be held like someone who mattered again after days of feeling invisible even when people were staring right at you.

The hug lasted longer this time, long enough that my arms finally gave in and wrapped around her too, clutching the back of her sweater like I was a little kid again who’d scraped their knee on the sidewalk.

No words. No sound but our breathing and the faint tick of Grandpa’s old clock in the living room.

Then Mom shifted gently, breaking away just far enough to press another kiss to my forehead, right where she always had since I could remember. A mom thing. A you’re safe thing.

“Come on,” she said softly, voice low and warm like honeyed tea after a bad day.

She took my hand calloused from gardening, strong as hell and led me down the hall toward my room.

It looked exactly how it did when I left ten years ago: faded lavender walls (I picked them at sixteen), an old poster of some band no one remembered now peeling off one corner (God knows why we kept it up), dusty bookshelf with romance novels stacked haphazardly…

Everything untouched.

Frozen in time.

Like someone knew someday… you’d come crawling back here needing shelter

**************

The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

No city hum. No distant sirens or AC units kicking on like they did back in Elderglen at night.

Just the faint tick of the old clock downstairs and maybe a floorboard creaking somewhere from settling wood or possibly just my imagination playing tricks.

I blinked into darkness.

The room was still, heavy with the kind of silence that only exists in old houses at night like the walls themselves were holding their breath.

I sat up slowly, stiff from lying on top of the covers instead of under them. My neck ached. So did my jaw, the stress clench I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying since last week when they called to say Philip had died.

My phone wasn't charged.

No charger here because this was * Mom’s house landline era.

No Wi-Fi signal strong enough for texts or emails either unless you stood directly outside by the router like some peasant praying for the internet like it was holy water.

But none of that mattered right now.

What mattered?

It was dark as hell outside.

The clock on the dresser said 12:47 AM in glowing red numbers the one Mom insisted stayed there “because emergencies happen.”

And suddenly?

I remembered why I woke up

Throat dry as sandpaper after crying all night without actually crying once (those tears came later).

Water.

The hallway floor was cold under my bare feet , wood that hadn’t been insulated right since the house was built in 1972. I padded quietly down the hall, avoiding the third step from the top, the one that always creaked like a dying animal.

The sitting room light glowed soft and gold through the half-open door.

Still on.

Just like Mom had left it earlier when she told me to rest.

And there she was exactly where I expected her to be: curled in her favorite chair by the fireplace, legs tucked under herself, a book open on her lap. Her reading glasses sat low on her nose, catching light just so they shimmered faintly.

She looked up instantly when I appeared, no surprise at all seeing me now. Like she’d known I’d come out eventually.

A small smile touched her lips as she marked the page with finger and closed the book gently, not angry or annoyed about being woken; never would be with me after everything today.

"Couldn't sleep?”

Mom pushed her glasses up into her hair and set the book some historical novel with a fancy leather cover on the side table. The cold tea sat beside it, untouched now for hours.

She didn’t ask if I was okay.

Didn’t offer empty sympathy or hug me again like she had at the door.

Just watched me with that quiet, all-knowing look the kind only mothers have after decades of reading their kids’ faces better than they read books.

Then she nodded toward the kitchen without speaking.

I knew what that meant Water? Snack? Want something warm to drink?

So I went through anyway, the living room opening into a small eat-in kitchen where everything smelled faintly like vanilla and old spices. Mom always kept cinnamon sticks in a jar by the stove.

The fridge hummed quietly as I pulled open the door,reaching straight for a pitcher of filtered water.

The glass clinked softly when I set it down in the sink.

I turned off the faucet, wiped my hands on a dish towel (an old habit), and padded back into the sitting room barefoot, silent as ever over those creaky floors.

Mom was still where I left her.

The book is closed now.

Hands folded over her lap like she’d been waiting for me without saying so.

She looked up when I entered eyes soft but alert and then did something unexpected

Instead of asking how I felt or if sleep would come tonight?

She smiled.

That small, mischievous one, the kind that meant gossip was coming whether anyone wanted it or not.

“So,” she said quietly,voice lower than usual,like sharing secrets even though we were alone,

“You wanna hear what’s been going on around here?”

I blinked.

Not because I didn’t care obviously I did but because this felt… normal.

Like the kind of thing moms do when their kids come home from college or a trip, not after someone just buried their husband.

But here she was. Offering me gossip like it was an olive branch to humanity again.

And honestly?

I needed that right now more than comfort or pity.

So without thinking, I nodded and sank onto the couch across from her the same spot as before and tucked my feet under me like some teenager staying up late for drama they weren’t even part of but loved hearing about anyway.

Mom’s face lit up slightly.

She closed her book fully this time,rested it on the coffee table,and leaned forward just a little…

Like she’d been waiting all day to spill town tea.