Staying Awake

The Homecoming

There he was.
Exactly where I thought he'd be.
Exactly where I needed him to be.

Max lay stretched out on the couch, one arm cradling the back of his head, the other limply holding the TV remote. His face, half-lit by the soft flicker of the television, looked older somehow—more tired, more distant. He wasn't watching, not really. The screen changed, light and shadows shifting across his features, but his expression stayed flat, hollow.

Then, suddenly, a soft laugh.

It was quick—barely a breath—and still, it caught me.
My first thought was: Is he laughing at me?
A stupid instinct, but old habits cling tighter than skin.

I froze in the hallway, halfway between wanting to announce myself and not wanting to interrupt. But as I leaned a little to catch the TV, I saw it was one of his old favorite shows. Some British comedy with dry jokes and quirky characters.

So it wasn't me.
Of course it wasn't.

Still, my stomach turned in that familiar way. Like I'd been wrong-footed in my own home. Like something was slightly... misaligned.

I adjusted my bag on my shoulder—wait, had I brought a bag in?
I looked down.
No bag. No phone either.

Right.
I'd lost it during check-in. I think. I remember standing in line, balancing my boarding pass between my fingers and double-checking my pockets—and then it was just... gone.

I never found it. Never replaced it.
The rest of the trip was a blur. I didn't even really remember flying home.

But I was here now.
I was home.

From deeper in the house, the sound of my boys' laughter floated toward me, light and alive. I closed my eyes and soaked it in. That sound—their giggles bouncing off the walls—it was everything I'd missed, everything I'd ached for.

A smile crept onto my face. I started down the hallway, my footsteps light, almost hesitant. The house felt the same, but not quite. The air had a stillness to it, a quiet that wasn't peaceful—it was thick. Like the house was... waiting.

I paused in the doorway of the living room. Max hadn't looked up. He hadn't so much as shifted since I entered.

No "Hey, you're back."
No glance.
No reaction.

Was he pretending not to notice? Still mad?

I'd meant to call. I really had. But once the phone was gone, and I'd missed the flight change text... everything spiraled. I got stuck waiting, then checking into some crummy motel, and suddenly it had been days.

Still, it was supposed to be just a week away.
Seven days.

Not...
How long had it really been?

I furrowed my brow and stepped back, my heartbeat thudding with a strange, slow rhythm.

I walked toward the boys' room. Their laughter grew louder, more real. A joy I hadn't felt in weeks—or was it longer?—washed over me.

Their door was open.

Connor and Hunter were sprawled out on the carpet, Crow bounding around them in circles, barking with abandon. The boys' faces were flushed, eyes sparkling, hair messy with play.

God, I missed this.
I missed them.

And then something strange happened.
Crow locked eyes with me.
For a split second, she stilled, ears perked.

Then she bolted.

Straight toward me.

"Hey girl," I said, smiling and bracing myself.