Love All The Way

27| LA girl

A six-hour flight in the middle of the night makes for a very cranky Kennedy. By the time I turn up at my parents' house – seven am once I've made it through the airport – I'm a tired, crinkled mess. My mother, to her credit, does not comment on my unholy appearance as she opens the door but blinks once, then twice, and throws her arms around my neck.

"Come to mama, sugar," she says. She's imitating Sweet Home Alabama, a film we've watched more times than I can count.

I pull back slightly, taking in her perfect top knot and dewy brown skin. Even at seven in the morning, she never fails to look effortless. "Come on, honey," she says, guiding me inside as my dad grabs my case from the Uber. Leading me into the living room, she sits me down and takes my hands, holding them in hers. "I can't believe you're really here. I've missed you."

I smile at the excitement on her face. Truth be told, despite the fact we message regularly, I should have made more of an effort to visit them. "I've missed you too."

"So," she says, "tell me everything. How's your job going? How's Jess doing? Any romantic prospects on the horizon?"

"Oh, Jeez," Dad says as he walks in with my luggage, "give the girl a break. She looks exhausted."

"Well, if she hadn't had to work over Christmas, we could have caught up then." There is a bite to her voice, but when she turns back to face me, that moment of disappointment has been replaced with motherly warmth. "I just want to know what my long-lost daughter has been up to."

"She wasn't lost," Dad says. "She was busy living her life as adults tend to do."

And so the arguing begins. I get to my feet, rubbing at a stain on my shirt that may or may not be the raspberry jello I ate on the plane, and let out an exaggerated yawn. "Dad's right. I'm super tired, Mom. Can I get a little sleep, and then we can catch up later, okay?"

Knowing she has no choice, she sighs and gets to her feet. "Of course, you go and get some sleep, baby. We've left your room exactly the same, and there are some fresh towels in the linen closet if you'd like a shower later. If you leave your travel clothes outside, I'll get them washed and ironed, and I can cook you breakfast when you wake up – pancakes? Eggs?"

"For crying out loud," Dad says. "She's not ten years old anymore. She doesn't need you to make her smiley face pancakes and wash all her clothes–" he stops and gives her a wicked look, "–I'll take some of those pancakes, though."

Mom rolls her eyes, but there's a smile on her lips that she can't quite suppress. "She might not be ten years old, but she'll always be my baby."

I'd forgotten that this was the problem with coming home. Somehow, despite being a full-functioning adult with responsibilities, I would always just be a kid to them. "That sounds great," I say, squeezing Mom's arm, "I'm going to head upstairs, okay? See you in a little while."

I head upstairs, into my childhood bedroom, and close the door behind me. Pink – I'd forgotten the walls were pink. Even as a teenager, I was your typical sheltered, preppy girl who got straight A's and said yes to every extra-curricular activity. The thought of becoming a big-city New Yorker never occurred until after I graduated from UCLA, where I found myself in desperate need of change. From there, I hopped on a plane and found myself an apartment before starting Long Bridge Real Estate. The rest, as they say, is history.

Of course, my parents were devastated, my mother in particular, though it was clear that Dad was too. I was their only child, the one thing they poured all their efforts into. With me gone, it meant facing the reality of their strained marriage. Still, they've made it this far without one of them going down for murder; how bad can things be?