I flew home on a Tuesday night with a carry-on, a stomach full of instant noodles, and the kind of hope that hurts when it’s been starved too long. I expected the hospital smell first—the antiseptic sting, the plastic bracelets, the whispered voices that float in corridors like prayers. Instead, my rideshare turned into a neighborhood I’d only ever seen in real estate ads: manicured hedges, stone mailboxes, streetlamps with little wreaths that looked expensive even out of season.
The driver slowed beside a house that didn’t belong in my memory. It rose like a small palace—white columns, black shutters, a fountain that was somehow both subtle and loud. Two luxury cars sat in the driveway, polished enough to mirror my face back at me.
On the porch swing, my sister Shell was sunbathing, bare feet tucked beneath her like a cat. She tilted her sunglasses down and stared as if I were a delivery. Then she smiled—wide, warm, perfectly healthy.
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