The Silence of Home
When I stepped into my parents’ house, my mother didn’t ask a single question. She just pulled me into her arms and whispered,
“You’re home now.”
Their small farmhouse sat at the edge of golden cornfields, the air thick with the scent of grass and summer rain. For the first time in months, I could breathe.
I worked remotely from my laptop, sending reports to my Austin office. In the evenings, I sat on the porch with coffee, watching the sun melt into the horizon.
It was simple. It was peaceful. It was mine.
One evening, as the cicadas hummed, my father asked gently,
“Do you think you’ll go back to him?”
I didn’t know.
I still loved Daniel. He wasn’t cruel—just weak.
And weakness can destroy love just as surely as hatred can.
“Maybe,” I said softly. “But not if things stay the same.”
