Still, I climbed the steps.
The front door used to be dull navy—chosen because it “hid dirt best.” Now it was charcoal gray with a brass knocker. Where the crooked brown welcome mat once sat, there was a pristine coir mat that read:
HOME SWEET HOME
I knocked.
Not gently.
Not cautiously.
I knocked like a son who had counted every one of the 1,095 days. Like someone who still believed he belonged.
The door opened—and the warmth I expected never came.
Linda stood there.
My stepmother.
Perfectly styled hair. Crisp silk blouse. Sharp eyes that inspected me like an inconvenience delivered by mistake.
For a brief moment, I thought she might flinch. Or soften. Or at least seem surprised.
She didn’t.
“You’re out,” she said flatly.
“Where’s my dad?” My voice sounded unfamiliar—rough, too loud.
Her lips tightened.
