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CHAPTER 11: HOME

"They say home is where your heart is set in stone, it's where you go when you're alone; it's where you go to rest your bones." Home, by Gabrielle Aplin

to Anne Lia, aka impediments. She's wonderful.

Zoey Willow Hunter

       THERE WAS NO SNOW. Around this time of year, at least one snow storm would've sprinkled the essential piece of the holidays. Because of intensifying global warming; the ground in Silvercrest was dry. It didn't stop the air from smelling like snow, though. I hadn't been gone for an eternity, but the view from the hour long taxi ride from the airport to my home was excruciating. Pieces of the country that could never be brought along to England stood out the most; Tim Horton's, hockey supporters, even the different tone of "sorry" or "excuse me".

It didn't matter that I got home at 3 a.m. and crashed on my bed without looking twice around. It didn't matter that I checked up on Julia and mom, who slept in the same bed, and didn't have the heart to wake them up, even though all I wanted was to jump between them and taste the only kind of love that mattered.

It didn't matter that I was too afraid to look around my room too much. I knew mom left it the way it was, even after I moved out. I knew every piece, every part, every inch that were inside the walls. I also knew that if I took more than a look, I would've been plagued by the child who strived to be the best and make others happy, the teenager who vowed never to let a man step over her again, the girl who could never stay awake in her boyfriend's arms, the young adult who left this room with big hopes and dreams, ones that were bigger than the house.

It didn't matter that I felt guilt, once I stepped into that room. It didn't matter that I felt as if I failed. Failed my family, failed my friends, and failed myself. It didn't matter that for a moment, I never wanted to leave. None of it did.

I was home; not in a boy's arms, not in a boy's false love, not with a boy. I could finally extend the walls in my heart to take place in the home they once left; for a whole month. I could let myself be, until I could stop feeling sorry for myself. I was home.

It most definitely felt like home when I woke up to my mom squeezing my cheeks and widely smiling. I squinted to peek through the sunlight; I didn't recall having open curtains when I fell asleep.

"Get up! Get up, get up, get up! I need to give you a proper hug! My baby girl is back," cooed a bright Amanda Hunter, practically pulling me out of my own (very soft, comfortable, cloud-like) bed and forcing me into her arms.

I hugged her back, naturally smiling. If there was a person to break out the morning grogginess, it was my mom. Her embrace was enough to make me forget London, along with everyone there. She was never going to leave, I was assured. She loved me, she always would.

"Oh! My baby," she held my face in her hands, "I missed you! So much. Did you lose weight? Oh my God, isn't there food in London? You don't eat. I can hold your whole waist in my hands."

She couldn't, at all. Not even a little.

Her light green eyes were almost grey, in the sun. Her hair was freshly and clean, reaching her shoulders instead of her back. Instead of growing old, she seemed to defy age. Wrinkles of excessive joy were in the corner of her eyes and lips; she hated them but they loved her. She looked like a bride. (Not the 18 year old bride version of herself, because at the time, her hair was bigger than my face.)

"Missed you too, momma. It was only five months."

"Five months too many," she wrapped her arm around my waist and hastily led me out of my room. "We've got so much to talk about!"