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Walkingthrough the front door of my parent's house, nostalgia immediately washes over me. The scent of citrus, with a hint of vanilla, fills the air, and I'd bet my mom has been busy baking cookies today, given the lingering aroma throughout the house.
I consider announcing my arrival with a cheerful "I'm home!" but then think better of it. After all, I didn't inform my parents of my return today, and I'd rather not startle them.
Instead, I drop my bag on the bench in the entryway and proceed toward the living room. I make sure to announce my presence with purposeful, heavy footsteps, not wanting to give my mom an unintentional heart attack.
Turning the corner, I find her folding clothes while watching TV.
"Hey, mom," I call out, trying to be considerate.
She jumps, startled by my greeting. "Jesus Christ, you sound like a damn elephant. It's like all of the years of manners I taught you and your brother flew out the window as soon as you left home," she scolds, her voice a mix of surprise and amusement.
"I was trying to give you a heads up so I didn't scare you," I reply with a hint of embarrassment. "Lesson learned."
She waves my words off, a warm smile softening her scolding tone. "Oh, I was just kidding! Come here and give me a hug. I've missed you so much."
I gladly oblige, tugging her into my arms and soaking in the love and support she is always willing to give me. Even when I don't deserve it.
I whisper into her hair, "I missed you too."
With a reluctant pull away, I take a moment to glance around before inquiring, "Where's dad?"
I spot him in the kitchen, where he always seems to be these days. Sarah, my brother's wife, dropped by yesterday with her laptop, seeking his technical expertise. Sarah and my brother go way back; they met in elementary school, became the closest of friends, and eventually started dating in high school. They've been inseparable ever since.
My father, a computer repair technician for the last two decades, finds solace and purpose in troubleshooting and mending computers. It's his passion, and you'd probably have to wrestle his laptop from his hands even on his deathbed.
He once told me that when something in life aligns perfectly, there's no reason to change it. It's like me and hockey, or him and computers.
Before heading into the kitchen, I give my mom a quick, affectionate squeeze. As I step into the kitchen, my dad's eyes dart away from the computer screen, and he breaks into a wide grin.
"My boy!" he exclaims, clapping his hands and beckoning me over.
As I approach him, I can't help but notice the subtle changes in his appearance. It's strange to witness your parents aging; the wrinkles are more pronounced, and the gray at his temples has crept further up his head. He looks different, yet somehow he remains the same man I've always known. It's a sobering reminder of the passage of time, and I can't help but feel a surge of gratitude that my parents continue to be such a significant part of my life.
Leaning down, I give him a warm hug. "Hey, Dad. How's it going?"
"Don't worry about me. I'm doing fine. How's hockey? Ronan? Anyone special your mother and I should know about?" he inquires.
Taking a seat beside him at the kitchen table, I raise my hands in a defensive gesture. "Jeez, what's with the twenty questions? Everything's been the same since we talked a couple of days ago."
He lets out a half-chuckle. "Yeah, well, maybe I was hoping for more."
I shake my head, genuinely curious. "Like what?"
He leans in, a familiar gleam in his eyes. "Your mom and I met in college."
Ah, here we go again.
"What does that have to do with me?" I play dumb like always, feigning ignorance while I study my father's expression.
"And your brother and Sarah have been attached at the hip since before they knew how to read," Dad responds, his voice tinged with an almost conspiratorial tone.
"I don't get where you're going with this?" I ask, genuinely puzzled.
With a warmth in his eyes, my father leans in and says, "I hope you find someone to share your life with, someone who makes you happy, whether it be a woman or a man. Love is love."
My internal monologue kicks in, "Are we really having this conversation right now?"
"Fuck, Dad. Women, I like women," I finally blurt out, feeling a mixture of relief and vulnerability.
