The flight from Bangkok felt endless, but the hug waiting for me at Riverside Airport made every mile worth it. Mom smelled like rosemary oil and something else I couldn’t name—maybe worry. As we drove through Millbrook, everything seemed smaller and more worn down, like time had quietly pressed on the streets and houses while I was away. Mom filled the car with stories about her book club, the neighbors, and the weather, carefully skirting around the dark circles under her eyes that no amount of makeup could hide.
When we pulled into the driveway, she gave my arm a squeeze and said she’d made my favorite—potato soup with extra thyme. I smiled, finishing the sentence for her. But the moment we stepped into the house, my smile faded. The kitchen was a mess. Dishes covered every counter, boxes were stacked by the window, and the faucet dripped weakly into the sink.
I asked how long it had been like this, and she looked down as she whispered, “A few weeks.” The pipes under the sink looked ancient, and when I asked why she hadn’t called someone, she simply said she forgot.
The next morning, I dragged Dad’s old toolbox from the garage and crouched under the sink, determined to fix the problem myself. Before I could loosen a single bolt, Mom rushed in, pale and trembling, begging me to stop and to call a professional instead. Her panic didn’t make sense, but I backed off. For the next two weeks, we washed dishes in the bathtub. Every night she checked the locks more than once, insisting everything was fine even as the air in the house grew heavy and uneasy.
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