I stepped off the plane after eleven years away, my carry-on containing more legal documents than clothes. Mom opened the door with tears in her eyes. Her new husband greeted me with his fist.
“Welcome home,” he slurred, bourbon heavy on his breath.
The sting across my face wasn’t what hurt most. It was seeing Mom look away, pretending not to notice. They called me cold, calculating, ungrateful. Maybe they were right. But I had something they didn’t expect: the original deed papers they thought were lost forever, and a very good lawyer on speed dial.
My name is Clare Mat, and I hadn’t set foot in Ohio for eleven years. Not since the day I packed everything I owned into two suitcases and caught a Greyhound to New York with my military scholarship papers and a promise to myself that I’d never look back. The call came on a Tuesday afternoon while I was reviewing audit reports in my Manhattan office. My grandmother’s voice was paper-thin but steady.
“Your grandfather passed, Clare. The memorial is Saturday. You need to come home.”
I almost said no. Would have, if she hadn’t added, “You need to see this with your own eyes.”
The flight from LaGuardia to Columbus took two hours. Two hours to undo eleven years of carefully maintained distance. I rented a car at the airport, muscle memory guiding me through the familiar streets of my hometown. Everything looked smaller than I remembered—the houses, the trees, even the high school where I’d graduated valedictorian before enlisting. The house sat on Maple Street, same as always: white siding, black shutters, wraparound porch. But the mailbox read Carlton now, not Mat. My mother had taken Rick’s name when they married three years ago. She’d sent me an invitation; I’d sent my regrets and a check.
I parked across the street and sat for a moment, studying the place where I’d grown up. The garden my father had planted was gone, replaced with gravel. The basketball hoop he’d installed for my thirteenth birthday had vanished. Even the old oak tree looked different, half its branches missing, probably deemed too close to Rick’s precious garage addition.
My phone buzzed. A text from my assistant: Legal documents uploaded to secure folder as requested. Good luck, Claire.
I grabbed my bag and crossed the street. The front door opened before I could knock.
“Claire.” My mother looked older, grayer, smaller. She pulled me into a hug that felt like an obligation. “You’re so thin. Don’t they feed you in New York?”
“Hello, Mom.”
She stepped back, her smile faltering. “Well, come in. Rick’s in the living room.”
The house smelled different. Cigarettes and something else—neglect. The hardwood floors my father had refinished by hand were scuffed and dull. Family photos that once lined the hallway had been replaced with Rick’s deer heads and fishing trophies.
“Look who finally decided to grace us with her presence.” Rick’s voice boomed from the living room. He didn’t get up from his recliner—my father’s recliner—now reupholstered in hideous camouflage fabric. “The Prodigal Daughter Returns.”
Rick Carlton was exactly what you’d expect: mid-fifties, beer gut, permanent sneer. He wore a stained T-shirt that proclaimed him World’s Best Grandpa, though he had no grandchildren. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
“Rick,” I acknowledged him with a nod. That’s it. No good to see you. No thanks for taking care of my mother.
He took a swig from his beer. “Typical.”
Mom fluttered between us like a nervous bird. “Claire’s tired from her flight. Let me show you to your room, honey.”
My room turned out to be a storage closet. Boxes labeled Rick’s Bowling Trophies and Hunting Gear were stacked against the walls. A pullout couch had been wedged between them.
“Where’s my bedroom?” I asked, though I already knew.
“Oh, well, Rick needed an office. You haven’t been home in so long, we didn’t think…” She trailed off. “This is fine, isn’t it? You’re only staying a few nights.”
I thought of my apartment in Manhattan, my sanctuary with its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. “I’ll get a hotel.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Family stays with family. What would people think?”
What would people think? My mother’s eternal concern.
“I need to use the bathroom,” I said.
Even that had changed. Rick’s razors cluttered the sink. His prescription bottles lined the medicine cabinet—Percocet, Vicodin, Xanax—a winning combination. The shower curtain featured Confederate flags. This, in my childhood bathroom, in the house my father, who’d served two tours in Iraq, had bought with his veteran’s loan.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page to discover the rest 🔎👇
