I skated to the familiar door, my heart heavy with anticipation and dread. When I knocked, it was my uncle who opened it, his expression a mix of surprise and discomfort. Behind him, I could see the room shift with the energy of my arrival.
My grandmother stood there, her face turning a deep shade of red, her emotions barely contained. My aunt was the first to move, pulling me into a warm, loving hug that felt both familiar and foreign. The others said nothing, just brief hellos that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken words.
I stood in the entryway, painfully aware of how I must have looked. My body was skeletal, my flannel shirt hanging open over my thin frame. A red flannel hat sat on my head, with long, dirty blonde hair spilling over my eyes, obscuring the world I didn’t want to face. The smell of unwashed days clung to me, a reminder of how far I’d fallen.
I was no longer the golden boy, the picture of “American apple pie” they might have once remembered. I was something else entirely.
Breaking the silence, I turned to my father and asked, “Can I use my room to get a change of clothes and a shower?”
“Yeah, sure,” he said, his voice hollow as the family watched me shuffle down the hall.
The shower was cathartic. The hot water washed away layers of grime, but it couldn’t touch the weight on my shoulders. Clean clothes felt like armor, a brief illusion of normalcy. When I came back out, the atmosphere in the room was subdued.
There was some small talk, but not much. My grandmother, ever the matriarch, had clearly chewed out my father. I could see it in the tension between them. Out of guilt—or perhaps obligation—he offered to let me come back and live with him.
I accepted, though I wasn’t naïve enough to believe this was a true homecoming. I had only a couple of years left until I turned 18, and it wasn’t like these people were planning to send me to college or teach me how to drive.
There had been no picture for the yearbook, no yearbook at all—because it cost money they weren’t willing to spend on me. I was the bastard son, a title she—his stay-at-home wife, now pregnant with their second child—was sure to remind me of every chance she got.
I didn’t know if I could navigate her passive-aggressive barbs or the tension that filled every corner of that house. But for now, I was back, showered, clothed, and out of the cold.
It wasn’t much, but it was something. Even if I had to walk on eggshells to stay, even if I was constantly reminded of my place, I could endure it. The alternative—being out there again—was worse.
For now, survival was enough. The rest would come later, or not at all.
