Heart to Hart ✔️

2. Homecoming

"Shh, your dad is watching TV. Why didn't you knock or walk in?" my mother said as she opened the door. She smoothed her platinum blonde bob down and readjusted her skirt.

Well, hello to you too. Typical Mum. If I had walked straight in, I would also be in the wrong.

She sidestepped out of the doorway and gestured for me to come in while scanning the street behind me. "Don't just stand there, Natasha. I have dinner to make."

"Hey, Mum." I pulled my suitcase up and wrapped an arm around her shoulders for a brief hug. "I missed you."

My mother returned my embrace with a pat on the back. "Yes, missed you too." She grabbed my shoulders and held me away from her, running her ice-cold blue eyes over my appearance. "Have you lost weight? You look gaunt."

At least that was better than the times she insinuated I'd gained too much weight.

"I don't think so," I mumbled while chewing the inside of my cheek and biting down to stop myself from screaming. The metallic taste of blood told me I had bitten down far enough.

She clasped my chin in her hand and angled my face upward. "Oh, no. It's just your face. Stop frowning. What have I told you about wrinkles? I have a cream you can start using. Remind me later. Now, close that door before you let flies in and head upstairs to freshen up before dinner."

My hands gripped the handle on my suitcase, turning my knuckles white. Pushing my annoyance down, I waited for my mother to disappear into the kitchen, leaving me outside the closed living room door. We didn't even manage a minute before she found fault in me; a new record.

I popped my head into the room, checking the area until my gaze landed on my father. He laid back in his armchair, his hands over his stomach and the top button of his trousers undone.

"Hey, Dad." I kept my voice cheerful, hoping for a better reception than the one from my mother.

He sat up and tugged his shirt down, covering the sliver of tanned skin hanging over the waistband. "Hey, Kiddo. Back already? How was Paris?"

"It was Marseille, and it was great."

"Same difference. They are both in France." He ran his hand through his thick greying hair. He squinted back towards the television, the wrinkles at the corner of his hazel eyes deeper than the last time I saw him.

It was pointless arguing that Paris was nowhere near Marseille, or even the same place. He knew that but refused to acknowledge he never paid attention to anything I did. Football played on the screen, and I knew I couldn't compete unless I started kicking a ball around like Messi.

I scratched the paint off the doorframe with my nail and sighed. "I better get this bag upstairs. It's getting heavy."

"Yep, you do that." He chewed on his thumbnail as he focussed on the game.

After making my way upstairs and into my old bedroom, I threw my case onto the middle of my bed. A year away and nothing had changed, yet somehow it looked different. Running a finger along the dust-covered bookshelf, I made sure each one of my beloved books was still where I had left them; my only escape from the loneliness I felt in my own home. Would I ever be good enough?

***

"Natasha Jane Wilson get down here! If you think you are coming home to mope around and not help, you have another thing coming," Mum shouted up to me.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and groaned as I lay back on my bed. How could someone so tiny shout so loud?

"Natasha, can you hear me? Get down here now!"