Ink and Heartstrings

37. This House, This Heart

The morning sun crept through the curtains like it knew it wasn't welcome.

Maria's alarm went off at 5:00 a.m., but she had been awake long before it rang. She lay still in the pale half-light, the ceiling above her blurred by the burn of unshed tears. The soft rustle of leaves outside her window sounded louder than usual. Everything did. It was as if the world around her had grown hypersensitive, aware of the moment's gravity.

Her suitcase stood by the door, zipped and ready, wearing its little airport tag like a silent declaration: She's going. Her carry-on was propped against her desk, and her passport sat on top of it, a small rectangle holding the weight of her future.

Maria sat up slowly, her limbs reluctant. There was no sense of victory, no rush of accomplishment. Only quiet resolve—and the ache of goodbye pressing into every breath.

She dressed in silence. A soft pink sweater, comfortable jeans, clean sneakers. Nothing extravagant. Just familiar. She looked at herself in the mirror, half-expecting to feel different. She didn't. Not yet.

Downstairs, the house was still dim and hushed. The scent of coffee drifted faintly from the kitchen, mingling with the warm smell of toast and something slightly burnt. Maria followed the scent to find her father at the stove, making eggs.

He didn't look up right away.

Richard: "I figured you'd need a real breakfast."

Maria: (quietly) "Thanks, Dad."

She sat at the table, watching him move. His back was slightly hunched from sleep, his hair uncombed, and his eyes red-rimmed. He plated the food without a word, then sat down across from her, rubbing his hands together as though trying to warm them.

For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the clink of her fork against the plate.

Richard: (after a pause) "I know I wasn't easy on you."

Maria looked up, startled by the honesty in his voice.

Richard: "I just didn't know how to let go. Still don't. But... you make it hard not to be proud."

Her eyes welled up, and she quickly blinked the tears away.

Maria: "I didn't want to make this hard for you and Mom."

Richard: "But you did. And that's okay. Because love is supposed to hurt when it stretches."

He reached across the table and placed his hand over hers. It was rough, warm, grounding.

Richard: "You're doing something brave. That's all I ever wanted for you. Even if it breaks my heart a little."

Maria couldn't respond. She squeezed his hand tightly instead.

Footsteps approached, soft and hesitant. Elena stood in the doorway, a worn cardigan wrapped around her shoulders. Her eyes were puffy, her cheeks pale, but she offered a small, fragile smile.

Elena: "You're not dressed like someone going to London. No trench coat, no scarf. You'll freeze."

Maria laughed, choked by emotion.

Maria: "I'll buy one when I land."

Elena came over and wrapped her arms around her daughter from behind, burying her face in Maria's shoulder.

Elena: (whispering) "I've never been more proud or more terrified. But you were never ours to keep forever."

Maria held her mother's arms against her, memorizing the feel of them—the safety, the warmth, the comfort of home.