Page 4

The Uber rolls to a stop in front of the house, and suddenly it feels like I never left.

I’m hit with a wave of nostalgia. This house is exactly the same with its white siding, blue shutters, the basketball hoop in the driveway that hasn’t seen a ball in years.

The porch light flickers like always, even though I’ve told Dad a million times to fix it.

It’s not that I thought all of this would be different, but it’s odd returning home.

Everything is the same, but I’m no longer the same person I was when I left.

I drag my two suitcases up the steps, keys jangling in my hand. Inside, the air smells like lemon cleaner and wood polish, familiar and warm.

“Dad?” I call, but the house is quiet.

Figures. He’s probably still at practice.

I leave my suitcases in the entryway and take a slow look around. Everything’s exactly where it’s always been. The framed pictures on the wall, the old coat rack by the door, even the stack of mail on the kitchen counter.

The family photos catch my eye, and I linger there for a moment. There’s one of me at five, grinning with two missing teeth, sitting on Dad’s shoulders at the beach. Next to it is my parents’ wedding photo.

My mom with her perfect hair and her fake smile. I stare at her face, and all I can think about is the day she left.

I was twelve.

One minute, she was yelling at Dad in the kitchen about money, about his job, about how coaching wasn’t enough for her. And the next, she was packing her bags, saying she needed “space” and “freedom.”

She got her space. We haven’t heard from her since.

I shake my head, tearing my eyes away. No use thinking about her.

The fridge hums when I open it, and I let out a groan. Almost empty. A sad carton of milk, a half-eaten loaf of bread, and a block of cheese that’s probably older than me.

Classic Dad.

Too busy to fill the fridge for my arrival, but I won’t complain. I grab my phone to check for takeout options. But then I spot the lasagna noodles in the pantry and think, Why not?

I can use the cheese. I search through the pantry for spaghetti sauce.

I spot it behind a bunch of random cans.

What else? Oh, he does have onion and garlic, so that’s a plus.

I check the freezer for hamburger. I find one in the depths, and I don’t dare to question when it expires.

I get straight to business now that I have some basic ingredients in front of me.

Cooking is grounding in a way. By the time the lasagnas in the oven, the kitchen smells like garlic and oregano, and it almost feels like home again.

While it bakes, I wander upstairs. My room is just like I left it. Mint-green walls, fairy lights strung across the ceiling, and a bookshelf stuffed to the max.

I smile. Dad didn’t change a thing.

Dropping onto the bed, I run my hand over the quilt my grandma made me. Underneath it, I find my old diary.

I flip it open and cringe immediately.

Dear Diary, today I saw Jason at lunch and OMG he is soooo cute!!!

I slam it shut. Nope. Not ready for that level of humiliation.

Instead, I grab one of my old romance novels from the shelf. It’s tattered and dog-eared, but it feels like an old friend. I curl up under the blanket, reading until my eyes get heavy and the words start to blur.

“Sienna.”

I jolt awake to the sound of Dad’s voice and the scent of coffee.

“Dad!” I throw the blanket off and practically leap out of bed.

He smiles, pulling me into a hug. “Hey, kiddo. When’d you get in?”

I laugh because he upgraded my flight, didn’t he? He has my itinerary. “A few hours ago. I’m assuming you were caught up at practice.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. Game’s next week, and the boys needed some extra drills.”

“Of course they did.” I pull back, grinning at him. “Did you eat? Shit!” I run out of the room.

“Language. Where are you going?”

“I made lasagna,” I shout as I run down the stairs and into the kitchen.

“You’re kidding. You had the time to cook? I was wondering why it smelled so good in here.”

I grab the mittens and open the oven door. I pull the lasagna out and sigh.

“It’s not burnt,” I chuckle, pointing at it as my dad stares at me. “I did it. I made it. I was very bored waiting for my old man. And you know I can cook as well as I bake.”

He shakes his head, laughing. “As good as you bake? I doubt that, but let’s see.”

We sit at the kitchen table, plates piled high with the not-burnt lasagna.

“This is amazing,” he says through a mouthful.

“You’re just saying that because you haven’t had a homecooked meal in years.”

“Maybe.” He winks, then gets serious. “How are you holding up?”

I shrug, focusing on gathering as much cheese and noodle on my fork. “I’m good.”

“Sienna.” His tone is soft but firm, and it makes me look up.

“I broke up with Aaron.”

His eyebrows rise, but he doesn’t say anything right away.

“It wasn’t working,” I add quickly. “He’s a good guy, but it just wasn’t right.”

Dad nods slowly. “Well, if it wasn’t right, then you did the right thing. You deserve more than just ‘good.’ Long distance is hard.”

I smile, but it’s forced. “Thanks, Dad.”

We finish dinner talking about his team and their upcoming game. For the first time in weeks, I feel like I can breathe.

It’s good to be home.

The sunlight streaming through the window wakes me. I stretch and glance at the clock on my nightstand.

8:12 a.m.

“Dad?” I call out, but the house is quiet.

A note on the kitchen counter reads: Practice early. Back later. Love you, kiddo.

Of course. The man lives at the rink.

I pour myself a cup of coffee from the half-full pot he left behind, inhaling the familiar smell. It’s not great coffee, but it’ll do.

I lean against the counter, sipping slowly, staring out the window. I don’t really have a plan for today. That’s weirdly freeing, but also a little unsettling.

After finishing my coffee, I rinse the mug and wander to the pantry. There’s flour and stale sugar.

Cookies. I want to bake cookies.

But first, groceries. The pantry and fridge are basically empty, and I could use a reason to get out of the house.

I grab my keys and head out.

The supermarket hasn’t changed a bit. Same cracked tiles, same flickering overhead lights, same ancient carts that squeak like they’re begging for mercy.

I push the cart down the aisles, throwing in butter, eggs, milk, and whatever else looks good. A bag of chips? Sure. A box of brownie mix? Why not.

In the baking aisle, I grab extra chocolate chips and a little container of rainbow sprinkles. Because why not add a little rainbow to make the cookies fun?

At checkout, the cashier smiles at me. “Haven’t seen you around in a while, Sienna.”

“Just got back,” I say, handing over cash.

“Visiting or staying?”

“Staying,” I admit, shrugging with a grin.

She hands me the receipt with a knowing smile. “Well, welcome back.”

Back at home, I unpack the groceries and get to work on the cookies. The kitchen fills with the smell of melting butter and sugar, and for the first time in a while, I feel okay.

Being here feels right.

I slide the first batch into the oven and set a timer. While they bake, I clean up the counters and think about Dad.

Maybe I’ll surprise him. Bring some cookies to his office and drag him out for lunch. The thought makes me smile.

By noon, I’ve got two dozen cookies cooling on a wire rack. I grab a container and pile a dozen inside, covering them with foil.

Grabbing my bag and the cookies, I head to the high school.