I stand at the door, my fingers hovering over the brass knocker. The house in front of me is exactly as I remember it—large, imposing, and impeccably neat. Every corner of the old Victorian house tells a story, every window and every stone seemed handpicked to convey a sense of quiet perfection. The façade of it all, a crisp, polished exterior, is so... familiar. And yet, it feels like I’ve never truly belonged here. My heart beats in my chest like a drum, loud and unsteady, as the years of distance come flooding back in waves. I inhale sharply and knock, the sound sharp in the quiet of the afternoon. Seconds stretch into what feels like an eternity before I hear the faint echo of footsteps. The door creaks open, and there she stands—my mother, in all her composed, elegant glory. The years haven’t been unkind to her. She’s just as tall, just as put-together as she was when I left all those years ago, but her face—her face tells a different story. The lines around her eyes and mouth,
Last Updated : 2024-12-20
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