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I knocked harder. Still nothing.
I don’t even remember deciding to push the door—it just happened. The latch gave way easier than I expected, and I stepped inside, already bracing for the worst.
There she was, sitting on the couch.
Alive. Safe.
And next to her—curled slightly toward her, hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea—was my mom.
Both of them had red, puffy eyes. Tear-stained faces. A box of tissues sat on the coffee table between them like it belonged there. The room smelled like chamomile and honey.
They were mid-conversation.
Not awkward, polite conversation. Not the kind you have when you don’t know what to say.
The kind where two people are already deep into something tender and real.
They both looked up at me at the same time.
I honestly thought I’d walked into an alternate universe.
My mom blinked first. “Oh,” she said gently. “You’re home early.”
My best friend looked panicked, then guilty, then relieved all at once. “I was going to tell you,” she said quickly, standing up. “I swear.”
I just stared. “Why… are the locks changed?”
My mom set her tea down calmly. “I suggested it,” she said. “She didn’t feel secure, and this house has been empty for a while.”
I looked between them, my pulse still racing. “And… this?” I gestured vaguely at the entire scene.
My best friend’s shoulders sagged. “I didn’t want to put everything on you,” she said softly. “You’ve been amazing. But sometimes… I needed a mom. And you don’t get to replace that, even if you love me.”
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