“Olivia, we’re so excited to have you,” she says. And the crazy thing is she actually sounds like she means it. “Come on, let me show you your room.”
Your room? Not the guest room. Not where you’ll be sleeping temporarily. Your room. It’s a small distinction, but after being treated like a house guest in my own home for years, it hits differently.
The room is painted a soft lavender color. Not my favorite, but infinitely better than the beige walls I’d stared at for the past 12 years. There’s a desk by the window, empty bookshelves waiting to be filled, and a bed with a comforter that looks like it was actually chosen for a 12-year-old girl rather than grabbed from whatever clearance rack was convenient.
“We weren’t sure what colors you liked,” Sarah says, ringing her hands nervously. “But we can repaint if you want something different, and we can go shopping for decorations this weekend if you’d like.”
I set my suitcase on the bed and look around. In my old house, asking to repaint my room would have been met with lectures about money and practicality. Here, it’s being offered as a given.
“This is perfect,” I tell her. “Honestly, thank you.”
The first few weeks are an adjustment period that feels like learning to live in an entirely different world. Uncle Richard and Sarah eat dinner together every night at 6:00 p.m. sharp. They ask about my day and actually listen to the answers.
When I mention a difficult math concept, Richard spends an hour helping me work through practice problems. When Sarah finds out I like to read, she takes me to the bookstore and tells me to pick out whatever I want.
But I still miss my parents, even though I probably shouldn’t. Even though they’ve called exactly twice in 3 weeks, and both conversations lasted less than 5 minutes.
“How are you settling in, sweetheart?” Mom asks during the second call. And I can hear music and laughter in the background. “Fine,” I tell her. “Uncle Richard and Sarah are really nice. I like my new school.”
“That’s wonderful. I’m so glad you’re happy. Listen, we’re in London right now and things are going better than expected. Dad’s band has been invited to record some demo tracks and I have a call back for a period drama series.”
“That’s great, Mom. When do you think you’ll be back?” A pause. “Well, that’s hard to say right now. These opportunities don’t come along very often, you know. But we miss you terribly.”
Do you though? I want to ask. Because if you missed me terribly, wouldn’t you want to come home? Wouldn’t you have called more than twice in almost a month?
“I miss you, too,” I say instead. Because it’s what she wants to hear. “Good. Now, be good for your uncle and aunt. Okay, we’ll talk soon.”
Soon turns out to be another 2 weeks. Be another. The calls become sporadic, always brief, always filled with exciting updates about their European adventure and vague promises about future plans. I start to understand that I’m not temporarily inconvenienced by their absence. I’m permanently replaced by their new life.
Spring arrives with an unexpected promise that changes everything. Mom calls on a Saturday morning and for the first time in months, she sounds like the mother I remember from when I was younger.
“Sweetheart, I have the most wonderful news,” she says, her voice bubbling with excitement. “We’re going to be back for your 13th birthday. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
My heart does this ridiculous little leap. The kind that makes you realize you’ve been holding your breath for months without knowing it. “Really? You’re coming home?”
“Of course. My baby is turning 13. That’s a big milestone. We’ll celebrate properly. Just you wait.”
For the first time since moving in with Uncle Richard and Sarah, I feel like maybe this whole situation isn’t permanent. Maybe my parents do miss me. Maybe they’ve realized that their careers aren’t worth losing their daughter.
When I ask, already mentally counting down the days. My birthday is still four months away. But suddenly, I can picture it perfectly. Mom making my favorite chocolate cake. Dad playing guitar while we sing. The three of us together again like a real family.
“April 15th, just like we planned. I’ve already marked it on the calendar.” I hang up the phone with more hope than I’ve felt since this whole nightmare began.
Sarah finds me in my room later that afternoon, staring at my wall calendar with a big red circle around April 15th. “Your parents called?” she asks gently.
“They’re coming back for my birthday,” I tell her, unable to keep the excitement out of my voice. “Mom promised.”
Sarah’s expression is carefully neutral. “That’s wonderful, honey. How would you like to celebrate?”
For the first time since moving here, I let myself dream big. “Could we have a party with friends from school? I’ve never had a real birthday party before.”