Somewhere Between Here And Home

The house felt different now, like it's lost a part of itself. Not in a dramatic way. Nothing had been knocked down, replaced, or repainted. It was smaller than that. Like the air had learned to make room for someone else. There were new sounds now. A second set of footsteps in the hallway. A different way the kettle clicked off. The soft closing of a bedroom door that wasn’t mine or Dad’s. At first, it was just visits. She’d come over in the evenings, usually after work. I’d hear her voice before I saw her — light, confident, like she already belonged here more than I did. Dad would laugh more when she was around. Not louder. Just… easier. I used to stay in my room when she came over. I didn't know what to do with the new closeness, so I avoided it instead. Not because I was told to. Because it felt simpler that way. One day, her shoes were by the door in a way that didn’t look temporary. A toothbrush appeared in the bathroom. A mug that wasn’t ours stayed in the cupboard. Dad didn’t announce it. He just started making coffee for two in the morning. Her name was Claire. I didn’t call her anything at first. Not because I was trying to be rude. Because I didn’t know what she was supposed to be to me. She was too old to be a friend. Too present to be a stranger. And definitely not something I had agreed to. Dad met her through work. I only know that because I overheard him telling someone on the phone once, standing in the kitchen like he thought I couldn’t hear through walls. “She’s good for me,” he said. Like that explained everything. Like that was enough reason for a person to start rearranging your life. That night, when he told me about New Zealand, it was just the two of us at the table. The same table Claire had started sitting at without asking. The same table that used to feel like ours. Dad had made pasta. It was slightly overcooked, which meant he was either distracted or trying too hard. I was halfway through eating when he put his fork down. “Your mum wants you to come to New Zealand.” I paused. The words didn’t land properly at first. Like my brain was still deciding whether to accept them. “What?” He leaned back in his chair. “She thinks it would be good for you to live with her for a while.” A while. That word always meant longer than people admitted. I looked past him, toward the hallway. Claire’s bag was hanging on the coat rack. Not packed. Not waiting. Just there. Like she had already decided she was staying. “And you’re okay with that?” I asked. Dad didn’t answer immediately. That was new too. He used to answer too quickly. Like he was afraid silence would turn into an argument. Now he just rubbed his thumb along the edge of his glass. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to stay here because of me,” he said finally. Because of me. Not because of her. That was the part that made my chest tighten. I pushed my food around my plate. My mum had been in New Zealand for years. Long enough that her voice on the phone sometimes felt like it belonged to a different version of my life. She sent photos of places I’d never been. Beaches that looked too clean to be real. Streets I couldn’t picture myself walking down. She always said she missed me. But missing someone over the phone is different. It doesn’t interrupt your day. It doesn’t sit at your dinner table. “What about Claire?” I asked before I could stop myself. Dad looked at me. For a second, I thought he might pretend not to understand. But he didn’t. “She’s not part of this decision,” he said. That wasn’t true. Or maybe it was. Maybe that was the problem. She wasn’t part of the decision. She was part of the life I was being asked to accept. I thought about the way she laughed at Dad’s jokes. The way she moved around the kitchen like she already knew where everything was. The way she said my name carefully, like she was trying to get it right without asking too many questions. I didn’t hate her. That was the worst part. I just didn’t know where she fit. Dad cleared his throat. “I’m going to ask her to marry me,” he said. The words didn’t feel like they belonged in the same room as us. Like they were too big for the table. Too final. I stared at him. “You’re what?” He didn’t repeat it. He didn’t need to. Something in my stomach dropped anyway. Not anger. Not shock. Something quieter. Like a door I didn’t know was open had just been closed. I looked down at my plate again. The pasta had gone cold. Outside, the streetlights were coming on. The house next door glowed warm in a way ours didn’t feel anymore.Dad was still talking, but I only caught pieces of it. “…don’t want to force you…” “…your choice…” “…both places are your home…” Home. That word used to mean one thing. Now it felt like it was splitting in two. I pushed my chair back slightly. “I need time,” I said. Dad nodded immediately. “Of course.” Like he had been expecting that answer. Like he had already prepared for it. I stood up, but didn’t leave right away. For a second, I just looked at him. My dad. Still my dad. Just… standing in a life that was changing faster than I could keep up with. “I’ll think about it,” I said. Then I walked away. And for the first time, I wasn’t sure which room in the house I actually belonged in anymore.