I used to think “home” was something you outgrow. I built a life where no one asked if I was happy, only if I was reliable. By thirty-one, I was a Regional Director—always traveling, always “fine.” Then the call came, and everything stopped.

“It was a stroke, honey. There was nothing the doctors could do. It’s better this way… your mom went with everything intact until the end.”

I barely remember the flight. I only remember counting breaths and saying her name under my tongue like a prayer I didn’t believe in. My hands shook signing the rental papers, and I sat in the car outside our old house too long to be reasonable, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles went white.

The porch light was still on in the middle of the day. Her green raincoat hung on its hook like she might come back for it. My phone vibrated.

“Are you coming in, Nadia?” Aunt Karen’s voice cut through the silence, too steady to be comforting.

Inside, she was already moving—offering lemon bars, stacking containers, trying to make grief behave. I took one without tasting it. She asked if I’d slept. I said yes, because it was easier than explaining that I hadn’t really closed my eyes since the call.