Page 3 of Off-Limits Daddy
I glanced at Cael’s reflection in the side mirror. He caught me looking, gave me a wink like we were co-conspirators in his personal brand of chaos.
Typical.
Briar Creek rolled by outside the window, the kind of town that stayed stubborn—same shops, same faces, same hand-painted signs—even if the rest of the world moved on. Early June heat made everything hazy at the edges, like the sun couldn’t decide whether it wanted to melt us or just make us sweat politely.
Storefronts with chipped paint, hand-lettered signs in the windows. The old movie theater marquee still read COMING SOON even though nothing had come soon there in about eight years, before I’d left for college. Rows of skinny eucalyptus trees lined the road out toward the neighborhoods, their dry leaves whispering secrets in the hot breeze. A couple of kids rode by on rusted bikes, kicking up dust trails behind them.
Same cracked sidewalks. Same crooked mailboxes. Same wild oleanders blooming along the fences like they didn’t know they were supposed to behave.
I watched it all slide past with a knot in my throat.
Home.
Sage pulled into the narrow driveway, tires crunching on sun-bleached gravel. The house was exactly how I remembered. Single story, warm tan stucco, white trim that Mom repainted every few years like a personal ritual. The little garden out front was all tidy rows of marigolds and tomatoes, neat and hopeful, just like her.
The front steps creaked under our feet as we made our way up to the porch—I leading the way, Cael and Sage right behind. Before I could even lift a hand to knock, the door swung open.
And there she was. Elizabeth Jackson—our mom—with one hand still on the doorknob and the other pressed over her heart like she'd been holding her breath. Her eyes went glassy before she even spoke.
“Oh, my baby. Look at you?—”
She pulled me into one of those hugs that knocked every breath out of my chest. I hugged her back just as hard, my face buried against her shoulder like I was sixteen again, coming home from summer camp. Mom didn’t even care that I smelled like bus stations and diner grease. She held on for a long time, like she could press all the broken pieces back into place.
For the first time in weeks, something eased in my chest.
Sage got one of those hugs too, followed by Cael getting pulled in with a “You better know you’re one of mine, too,” like he didn’t already treat himself like family.
The house smelled like garlic and tomatoes, the rich, warm scent of lasagna filling every corner and making my stomach ache in the best way. Underneath that— faintly—was the clean, lemony scent of laundry soap, like Mom had been on one of her tidying sprees before I got here. Same worn rug in the living room, couch with the crocheted blanket draped over the back, framed family photos on the wall. Not fancy. Just right.
“I kept your room just the way you left it,” Mom said, brushing her hand down my arm like she could still smooth the creases out of my life. “Figured you’d want somewhere familiar, even if you only pop in once a year.”
I smiled, sheepish. She wasn’t wrong. Between summer jobs, gallery work, and a million reasons not to slow down, I’d only made it home for a few short visits in four years—and even those had been quick, surface-level.
“I should probably go say hi to my old sketchpads,” I joked, heading toward the hall with my bag slung low.
“You know where everything is,” she said, already steering Sage and Cael toward the kitchen. “And don’t be long—we’re eating soon.”
My room was cleaner than I remembered—probably Mom’s doing—but the same posters still clung to the walls, edges curling slightly. The desk in the corner was scratched up with old pencil marks. A wire basket held some of my old sketchpads. A cracked ceramic frog I made in ninth grade still sat on the dresser, one leg chipped, eyes uneven, paint job somewhere between “bold” and “accidental.” It looked awful. I kind of loved it. Proof that I used to make art… do things… without overthinking it. Somewhere along the line, I stopped creating just for the joy of it.
I crossed to the window and pulled back the sheer curtain.
The old wooden swing still hung out back, its white paint chipped and curling. I’d promised Mom at least three times I’d repaint it—once before college, once during a winter break, and again last spring. Never did.
Just like the mural I started in my sophomore year and never finished.
Just like the webcomic I swore I’d update every Friday.
Just like the oil set I barely cracked open after Ben said it “wasn’t really my medium.”
A dozen half-started things.
A dozen reasons I’d stopped trusting myself to finish anything at all.
I let out a breath and stepped back into the hall. My footsteps slowed as I neared the kitchen, voices floating through the doorway ahead. A low laugh from Cael. The soft clink of plates being set. Mom asking Sage to grab the extra napkins from the drawer, her voice easy and full.
We gathered around the kitchen table, plates full of lasagna and garlic bread, salad
on the side. Mom asked gentle questions about school, about my plans—never
