Dad burned the first batch of toast.
Madison complained that he had no decent fruit in the house.
Ethan showed us photographs of the small home he and Rachel were considering buying.
And I sat at the kitchen table watching sunlight move across the same scratched wood where we had eaten cereal as children.
It felt strangely important.
For years, I had associated home with obligation.
Birthdays I might miss.
Questions I could not answer.
Jokes I pretended not to hear.
Now, for the first time, I wondered whether home could become something else.
Not a place where everyone understood me perfectly.
A place where they were willing to try.
Before I left, Dad followed me to the driveway.
I placed my overnight bag in the car.
He stood awkwardly with both hands in his coat pockets.
“Claire.”
I turned.
“I’ve been thinking about something.”
“Dangerous.”
He smiled faintly.
