without another family argument.
As I approached my parents’ house, I noticed the familiar signs of neglect.
The paint around the porch was peeling.
One of the outdoor lights flickered.
The flowerbeds my mother once maintained so carefully looked overgrown.
Still, the smell of roasted chicken and rosemary drifting from the kitchen brought back childhood memories.
My mother, Karen, opened the door.
“Lucas! I’m glad you came.”
She looked tired, but she smiled as I kissed her cheek.
Inside, everything felt familiar.
The old kitchen clock ticked above the doorway.
The refrigerator hummed loudly.
Family photographs lined the hallway.
My sister was already sitting at the dining table, looking as though she’d arrived for a professional photo shoot.
Her hair was perfectly styled, and an expensive-looking handbag rested beside her chair.
“Hey, big brother,” she said brightly.
“Hi, Khloe.”
Dad greeted me with a brief nod.
Then he immediately resumed
