Page 14 of Best Woman

“Surprise,” I shout into an empty house.

It’s a few months into my first year of college and, feeling homesick, I hoarded what I still can’t stomach calling my monthly allowance—I prefer to think of my mother as a patron rather than a parent—to make a weekend trip home.

I took a taxi home from the airport to really complete the surprise, imagining walking in the front door to my family gathered around the kitchen table, sadly eating their dinner and mourning my absence, only to burst into smiles (the toddler twins), fake groans that hid fondness (Aiden), pleased bafflement (Randy), and weepy joy (Mom).

But the house is dark, and the alarm is going off.

I punch in the code—a combination of mine and Aiden’s birthdays—but nothing happens.

I drop my duffel bag to the floor and flip open the cellphone I’ve had for years, thinking enviously about my roommate’s shiny new iPhone back in New York. Mom picks up on the third ring.

“Hi, sweetie, I can’t really talk.”

Then why did you answer the phone, I think, annoyed. The alarm is still beeping in the background.

“Where are you,” I ask, stepping back outside to escape the noise.

“Do you want to tell your brother where we are, boys,” she says, voice turned away from her phone.

“DISNEY!!!!!” Brody and Brian sound strung out on sugar and character meet and greets.

“We’re just here for the weekend,” Mom says. “Aiden dragged me on to Space Mountain today and my ears are still ringing, but the boys are having so much fun. How are you, sweetie?”

“I didn’t know you were going to Disney.” My throat feels tight. “Was it a last-minute thing?”

“No, we’ve been planning it for a while. Brian, do not put that in your mouth! Honey, I’ve really got to go. Is everything OK?”

“Yeah,” I gasp out through inexplicable tears. “By the way, did you change the alarm code at the house?”

“What? Why? Brody, put your shoe back on!”

“Just wondering.”

“It’s the twins’ birthday, 1104. I’ve got to go, honey. Love you!” The call ends.

Back inside, I punch in the code and drag myself upstairs to my bedroom.

It’s mostly the way I left it, although a few stray items without a proper home—the box for a new juicer, toys the twins have grown out of—have found their way in here.

I bob and weave my way through them toward my bed, flopping face down and finally letting the tears fall into my pillow where no one, not even I, can see them.

I spend the rest of the weekend raiding the fridge and finishing up a paper for my Gay and Lesbian Literature class on Sarah Waters’s Tipping the Velvet .

On Sunday I call a taxi, make sure my room looks exactly the way it did when I arrived, and head back to my new life, leaving my old one, which no longer seems to fit, behind.

When I come home for winter break a month later, I hug my mom and tell her it’s so good to finally be home.