The flight home from Bangkok felt like a lifetime. But nothing compared to the lump in my throat when I saw Mom standing by the arrivals gate, arms wide open, tears already spilling.
“Jeremy!” she cried, pulling me into a hug so tight I almost forgot I’d been away for a whole year. The scent of her rosemary oil still clung to her like a memory—and something else I couldn’t name. Worry, maybe.
The drive through Millbrook was a time capsule cracked at the edges. The streets seemed smaller, the houses more worn. Mom chatted nonstop—neighbors, church choir gossip, her book club—but I couldn’t unsee the dark hollows beneath her eyes or the way her hands trembled on the steering wheel.
