That night, I opened my laptop and booked a hotel room in downtown Madison.
Not my old room with its faded posters and the creaking twin bed, but my own space with clean sheets and a locked door.
It was the first time I’d drawn a line.
Then, anticipating what awaited, I rehearsed neutral answers in my head.
If asked about why I was single: “I’m focusing on myself right now, and it feels right.”
If compared to Emily’s milestones: “Everyone has their own timeline.”
Max stirred beside me, pressing his head against my leg as if he sensed the storm ahead.
I scratched behind his ears and whispered, “We’ll be fine.”
But as I looked out across the Cascade Mountains, sharp and immovable, I wondered if I could hold myself as steady when I stepped back into that house.
Four days later, I drove the long, flat stretch into Wisconsin.
By the time I pulled into the neighborhood, dusk was laying a gray wash over the rows of trimmed lawns and tidy mailboxes.
The Walker house looked exactly as I remembered.
White paint fresh on the siding. Shutters green and straight. A wreath of dried leaves hanging perfectly centered on the red front door.
It was the kind of house people drove past and thought, “Now there’s a family who has it all together.”
I cut the engine and sat still, watching my breath fog the windshield.
Max wasn’t with me. I’d left him at a boarding kennel in Seattle, but I wished for the comfort of his steady presence.
Finally, I grabbed the bottle of Cabernet and the pie I’d baked the night before, squared my shoulders, and walked up the path lined with fallen red maple leaves.
The door opened before I could knock.
My mother stood there, apron tied neatly, hair pinned in her holiday style.
Her eyes swept over me in one practiced glance.
“You look tired,” she said.
Not unkind, but not warm either.
“The drive must have been difficult.”
No hug, no smile, just an appraisal.
Behind her came the sound of laughter.
Emily appeared, carrying her baby on her hip.
“Ethan,” she said brightly, before our mother leaned forward to take the child from her arms.
“Oh, there’s my sweet boy,” Linda cooed, pressing her cheek against the baby.
Emily received a kiss on the cheek.
I received another glance, sharp and measuring.
My father emerged from the hallway, his expression softening the moment he saw me.
“There’s my son,” he said, stepping forward to clasp my shoulder with both hands. “Glad you made it safe.”
His eyes crinkled, and for a brief second, I remembered the rare nights when he’d sneak into my room with hot chocolate after one of my mother’s lectures.
That gentle sympathy was still there, but as always, it was quiet, never enough to shield me.
Inside, the house smelled of roasting turkey, sage stuffing, and cinnamon simmering in a pot on the stove.
Every decoration was perfectly coordinated.
Orange candles, place cards already laid at the dining table, polished silver catching the light.
In the kitchen, Emily’s husband, Michael, was arranging a charcuterie board.
My mother hovered, praising him.
“Look at this. What a wonderful touch. Not every man would help in the kitchen. You’re such a catch, Michael.”
Emily smiled, brushing a stray hair from her face.
“He’s always been like that.”
I stepped in, setting the wine and pie on the counter.
“Thought I’d contribute.”
Linda turned, her lips pressing into something like politeness.
“Well, that’s thoughtful, but we already have three pies: pumpkin, pecan, and apple. We may not even get to yours.”
Her hand slid the box to the far corner of the counter.