No Place for My Slippers or Me

I pushed open the door to my room and froze.

Pink curtains. A white vanity. The walls were covered with posters of the celebrities my sister was obsessed with.

I opened the wardrobe and found it filled with her dresses and jackets. Her journals and dance competition trophies lined the bookshelf.

I went to the living room and asked, "Where's my room?"

My mom, Nancy Kerr, was peeling an apple. She didn't even bother to lift her head. "You're a guy. Sooner or later, you'll get a place of your own and build your career. Leaving your room empty would be a waste. Luna uses it every day, so I gave it to her."

"Then where am I supposed to sleep?"

She nodded toward the couch, grabbed an old, pilled blanket, and tossed it to me. "Make do for a couple of days. You won’t be staying long anyway."

Luna poked her head out of her room. "Leon, your pillow is on the top of the cabinet on the balcony. Go get it yourself."

I went out to the balcony, stepped onto a stool, and reached up to pull the pillow down. The stuffing had hardened into clumps, and it was flattened like a pancake, with yellowed edges.

I hugged it to my chest as I sat on the couch, remembering how, when I was ten, I was brought back to the city, and Mom pointed to the spare bedroom and said, "This is your room."

Back then, I thought I finally had a home.

Yet, ten years later, this family had gradually turned me back into a guest.

First, my drawers were emptied. Then my closet was taken over. Then the bookshelf. And finally, there wasn't even a bed left for me.

There were no blackout curtains in the living room. The lights from the building across the street and the streetlights flickered on and off in turns, while the ceiling was glaringly white.

I rolled over. The blanket was too short, so whenever I pulled it up over my shoulders, my ankles were left exposed.

My phone buzzed with a message from my advisor, Bobby Newton. "Leon, we're still one person short for the propulsion systems project at Nettle Base. The conditions are tough. It'll take at least two years, and you'll be completely cut off from the outside world. You're qualified for it. Are you interested?"

I stared at the ceiling for a long time.

I wasn't wondering whether I should go. I was wondering if anyone in this family would even notice if I disappeared for two years.

Probably not. After all, a hotel didn’t search the world for a guest after he checked out.

I replied, "Yes, I'll go."