Page 114 of Bleacher Report
We grab our bags and walk up the front steps, the December cold nipping at our skin.
When the door opens, my mom stands there, arms wide, that same bright smile stretched across her face.
Only...she’s thinner.
There are dark shadows under her eyes that weren't there the last time I saw her.
But she pulls me into a hug that feels exactly the same—tight, fierce, full of unconditional love.
"Hunter, honey, it’s so good to see you," she murmurs into my chest.
Then she turns to Peyton and wraps her up just as tightly.
"And you must be Peyton! It's wonderful to finally meet you, dear. I’m Carly."
Peyton beams, cheeks pink from the cold—or maybe from the Reed family welcome assault.
"It’s so nice to meet you too, Ms. Reed."
"Please," Mom laughs, waving her off. "It’s Carly. And come on in. You must be freezing."
Inside, the house smells like a bakery, the fake tree my mother keeps up in the attic taking its annual spot in the corner of the living room with all the same ornaments that we’ve had since I was a kid.
The living room is cozy, cluttered in the way of lived-in homes—crocheted throws over the couch, a cluttered side table full of holiday cards, and everywhere, pieces of my childhood.
My hockey trophies line one wall, gathering a little dust but polished with pride.
A lump rises in my throat as I follow her gaze.
"I’ll take the bags upstairs," I say quickly, trying to shake it off.
"You do that," Mom says, steering Peyton toward the kitchen.
"I could use some help decorating the cookies for the Christmas Eve retirement home cookie exchange. You up for it, Peyton?"
"I love decorating Christmas cookies," Peyton says with an excited tone that I can hear as I ascend the stairs with our luggage. "My mom and I do it every year."
As I head upstairs, I catch snippets of their conversation—Mom explaining how cream of tartar and a little Crisco are the secret to icing that doesn’t run, Peyton’s easy laughter in response.
For a second, the tension in my chest eases.
Mom still sounds like Mom.
Maybe Bethany’s wrong.
Maybe everything’s fine.
But the moment I walk into my old bedroom, my stomach drops again.
Gone are the sun-bleached posters, the scratched-up homework desk, the ancient twin bed.
The room’s been repainted a soft sage green.
The bed is now a California king with a fresh comforter set that looks straight off a Pottery Barn website.
The dresser’s new too—sleek, modern lines—nothing like the battered furniture I grew up with.
Change is hard, but this… This hits harder.
