Page 20

Hazel

I stood on the creaking wooden porch of my childhood home, my suitcase in one hand and my laptop bag slung over my shoulder. The winter air was thick, but I still felt scorching. I stared at the familiar red door, its paint chipped at the corners, and the pruned flowers flanking the steps–my mom’s pride and joy. Nostalgia steeped the scene, yet it felt distant, as if I were seeing it through a fogged window. I took a deep breath, the fresh air doing nothing to calm my nerves. Before I could knock, the door swung open.

“Hazel!” My mom’s voice was bright, almost too cheerful, as if she’d been standing on the other side waiting.

I barely had time to register the greeting before someone pulled me into a tight hug. My mom smelled like vanilla and the lemony scent of cleaning spray, a mix that was her. The hug felt comforting and safe. My mom pulled back, her hands still resting on my arms.

“Look at you! You’ve lost weight, haven’t you? Are you eating enough?”

I forced a small smile.

“I’m fine, Mom. Promise.”

Before she could press further, my dad appeared in the hallway, his face lighting up like a marquee.

“There’s my girl!”

His arms stretched wide, and I found myself pulled into another hug. The tension in my shoulders eased—just a little. My dad’s hugs always felt solid, grounding, like he was anchoring me in place.

“The house has been way too quiet without you.” He said, his voice softening as he released me.

My smile wavered.

“It’s good to be back.”

“Emma’s already here,” Mom said, motioning toward the back of the house. “She’s out on the deck, working as usual. You know how she is.”

Of course, Emma was working. I nodded, muttering something about heading to the living room. I dropped my suitcase by the stairs, my chest tightening as I walked toward the deck. Emma looked how I remembered: polished, poised, perfect. She had pulled her dark hair into a sleek ponytail and sat at the patio table with her laptop open. Even in the casual setting, she looked like she’d just stepped out of a magazine spread for successful women in business. I hesitated, the screen door creaking as I stepped outside. Emma glanced up, her serious expression softening.

“Hazel. Long time no see, baby sis.” Emma said, closing her laptop and leaning back in her chair.

Her tone was friendly but distant, like she was addressing a co-worker instead of her younger sister.

“Hey.” I replied, sitting on the edge of one of the deck chairs.

I felt awkward, too big for the space, like I didn’t quite belong in this scene. Emma tilted her head.

“How’s school? Still writing those stories of yours?”

I stiffened. Those stories of yours. The phrase landed like a dart. I forced my voice to stay even.

“Yeah. Still writing. Classes are good.”

“Good,” Emma said, her tone pleasant but dismissive. “It’s nice to have a creative outlet.”

My stomach twisted, but I managed a faint smile. Nice to have a creative outlet? I wanted to say something to defend myself, but the words stayed lodged in my throat. Our mom appeared in the doorway, beaming.

“Dinner’s almost ready, girls. Hazel, your timing couldn’t be better. Emma was just telling me about her big case—she’ll have to share at dinner!”

“Of course.” Emma said with a modest shrug, her smile practiced and polished.

I nodded, but my chest felt heavy at the inevitable. Roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and steamed green beans filled the dining table. My mom had gone all out, like she always does.

“So, Emma,” my dad began, leaning back in his chair. “Tell us about this case your mom keeps mentioning.”

I focused on my plate, cutting my chicken into tiny pieces as Emma launched into a detailed explanation. Her words flowed effortlessly, a testament to her unshakeable self-assurance. And maybe she had—Emma always knew how to work a room.

“That’s incredible,” my dad said, his pride radiating off him. “You’ve always been such a hard worker. We’re so proud of you.”

I stabbed a carrot with my fork, my appetite dwindling. I waited for the inevitable turn in conversation.

“And you, Hazel?” My mom asked, her tone lighter, more cautious. “How are your classes going?”

“They’re good,” I blurted. “Busy, but good.”

“Are you still thinking about writing?” My dad asked, his voice carrying that same skeptical edge it always did.

My fingers tightened around my fork.

“I’m not thinking about it. I am writing.”

My mom nodded, but the gesture was more placating than supportive.

“That’s wonderful, sweetie. But, you know, it’s always good to have a backup plan.”

I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing myself to stay calm.

“Writing is the plan.”

My dad chuckled, shaking his head as if I’d told a joke.

“Sure, sure. But it’s always good to be realistic.”

Emma chimed in; her tone measured.

“They’re just trying to help, Hazel. It’s smart to have options.”

I didn’t reply. The knot in my stomach was too tight, and my throat felt like it was closing. I knew my parents loved me and would go to the ends of the earth for me, but I couldn't help but wonder if they would love me more if I had turned out the way they imagined.

I paced my childhood bedroom, the soft creak of the floorboards beneath my feet the only sound in the quiet house. The air felt heavy, the weight from memories I wasn’t ready to face. My gaze drifted toward the desk by the window, where a stack of letters sat in a chaotic pile. I hadn’t touched them in weeks. Maybe months.

With a reluctant sigh, I sank into the worn desk chair, its cushion flattened from years of use. The pile of letters stared back at me, a physical manifestation of every failed attempt to break into the world I’d dreamed about for as long as I could remember. My hand hovered over the stack before I pulled the top letter free. I burned the words into my memory.

“Thank you for submitting your manuscript. Unfortunately, it does not fit our current needs.”

It was polite. Cordial. And crushing. I dropped the letter back onto the pile, my chest tightening as I grabbed another.

“While your story shows potential, we cannot move forward at this time.”

Potential. I almost laughed. It was the same empty praise every time, equaling someone saying, Good effort, but not good enough. I leaned back in the chair, letting my head fall against the wall. My fingers traced the edge of one letter, my mind replaying every moment I’d spent pouring my soul into my writing. The late nights, the skipped meals, the way my heart raced whenever I hit send on a query email, only to have it shattered days or weeks later when the rejections rolled in.

“Why am I even doing this?” I whispered to myself, my voice barely audible in the stillness.

The question lingered in the air, a dangerous thought I’d been trying to avoid. I glanced at the rest of the letters, at the stack that seemed to mock my every effort.

My parents’ voices echoed in my mind. It’s great to have hobbies, sweetie. But you need a backup plan.

A lump formed in my throat. I blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall. It wasn’t just about proving them wrong—it was about proving to myself that I could do this, that the stories I spent so much time crafting mattered.

My gaze drifted to the window. Outside, the moon hung low in the sky, casting a pale light over the garden below. It reminded me of all the nights I’d stayed up writing in this room, fueled by dreams that felt so close I could almost touch them.

I reached for my laptop, ignoring the blank document on the screen, and opened my email instead. There were more rejections there, unopened, waiting like landmines. I glanced back at the pile of rejection letters, then at the notebook on my nightstand. I stood and walked over to the desk. I gathered the letters and slipped them into a drawer. They weren’t going anywhere, but they didn’t need to sit there, mocking me, either.

I picked up my notebook, ran my fingers over its worn cover, and sat back on my bed. Flipping to a blank page, I grabbed a pen and let it hover above the paper. The words didn’t come, but that was okay. They would. They always did.