Chapter 5 - The Homecoming
The flight back was quiet,
the hum of the jet engines a backdrop to my thoughts.
I wore a suit that cost more than my father’s first house,
a sharp,
tailored charcoal gray that made me look like the authority I was.
My hair was different,
shorter and more sophisticated,
and the way I carried myself had changed from a shrug to a stride.
Julian was by my side,
a calm presence who knew the ghosts I was returning to face.
We checked into a hotel overlooking the park,
a place of luxury my parents would never see the inside of.
I spent the afternoon walking the streets of my old city,
feeling like a tourist in my own past.
I saw the park where I used to take Paige to play,
the place where I always had to give up my turn on the swings so she wouldn't cry.
I saw the library where I used to hide from the chaos of my home.
The city felt smaller,
the buildings less imposing,
as if my growth had physically shrunken the world I used to fear.
The night of the gala arrived,
the air crisp and smelling of autumn leaves.
I looked at myself in the mirror,
noting the confidence in my eyes,
the lack of desperation in my smile.
I was forty years old now.
Ten years had passed since I left that note on the marble counter.
We arrived at the restaurant in a black car,
the flashbulbs of the photographers popping as we stepped out.
I walked into the private dining room,
the same room with the tall windows overlooking the river.
It was filled with the city’s elite,
the powerful,
the movers and shakers.
And there,
standing near the bar,
looking out of place and significantly aged,
were my parents.
They were there as "local community representatives,"
a pity invite often given to those who had once been relevant.
I saw my mother first,
her hair thin and gray,
clutching a cheap glass of wine.
I saw my father,
his shoulders slumped,
looking tired and defeated.
They didn't recognize me at first.
I was just another successful woman in an expensive suit.
But as I walked toward the center of the room,
our eyes met.
The glass in my mother’s hand shook,
the red wine sloshing against the rim.
“Claire?”
May you like
she whispered,
the name sounding like a ghost.
