Anastasia
The morning after the party, I made a choice that felt like breathing again. I packed my bag, left for home, where I grew up. There's something about walking into my mother's embrace that softens all the sharp edges of life. It's blissful to have her.
The house smelled of food, rich, seasoned, comforting. "Ana," Mom said, wrapping me tightly, her hands rubbing my back like she could squeeze the world's worries out of me.
The days at home unfolded like a soft lullaby. To no one's surprise, my phone buzzed with an unknown number.
Unknown
I stared at the screen. Then I snorted. Really? That was the oldest trick in the scammer's book. My fingers flew.
Me: Don't ever sully other people's names. You're pathetic.
And I did. Whoever they were, they picked the wrong day to mess with me.
Instead, I chose my mom's cooking over digital nonsense. She shooed me away when I tried to help in the kitchen.
"You're skin and bones," she scolded, waving a wooden spoon at me. "Like a pole. Sit down. Let me feed you."
I laughed until my stomach hurt. That was my mother, strong, stubborn, and full of love. She was the kindest woman I knew, and maybe because of her, I grew up loving responsibility, stepping in where needed, and never backing away from hard things.
That week was heavy with meaning. Today marked Dad's memorial. I woke up early, the air carrying that still, almost sacred quiet. We cleaned the house, then cooked a spread the way he would've liked. Mom placed her favorite flowers in the middle of the table, and together we arranged the bouquets for the cemetery.
Walking through the gates, the crunch of gravel beneath my shoes felt louder than usual. Each person took their turn to speak, and though my throat felt tight, I stood tall when it was mine.
"I miss you, Dad," I whispered, my voice trembling but steady enough to carry. "You always called me your pride, and I still live every day trying to be worthy of that. Everything I am… It's because of what I learned from you."
I remained silent, choking on my own words. He was there, and then he wasn't. My dad, loving and kind, wise with his words, now no one advises me like he used to. I miss that part of my life.
It shattered me, but I have to live for my mother and the twins; we have no one but God and each other.
When the words ended, silence pressed against me. It was so hard to leave. My hand lingered on the stone longer than it should have.
Evening softened the day when we returned home. The house glowed warm again, the kind of warmth that came from more than just lights. We fell back into the rhythm of togetherness, watching shows as we used to, laughter filling the cracks where grief had settled.
Soph and Seb couldn't go a minute without bickering. Their voices climbed over the TV, bouncing back and forth like tennis balls.
"Stop it already!" Mom snapped, her patience stretched thin.
"You love Ana more than us!" Soph declared dramatically.
Seb crossed his arms. "Exactly! She's your favorite."
I sighed. Classic. They always teamed up when it came to accusing me of being Mom's golden child.
"Don't drag me into this," I said sweetly, settling back on the couch. "But since you already have…" I put on my best fake-innocent face. "Mom, why don't you just move in with me? Let them fend for themselves."
The effect was instant.
"NO!" they shouted in unison; panic etched on their faces.
Mom and I burst into laughter. She slapped me on the high five, her smile wide and conspiratorial. My siblings looked at us like betrayed soldiers. Their outrage only made me laugh harder, tears prickling at my eyes.
This…this chaos, this love disguised as bickering, was home. My safe place. My refuge.
And that was more than enough.