By the time I pulled into the driveway, the rain had already stopped, leaving only a chill mist and the nearby pines soaked. The house—rather, our family home—looked smaller and paler than I remembered. Little me would play on the lawn all day, make-believing with my brother, Steven, feeding the crows that would drop by, sword-fighting with sticks, digging up worms—all while waiting for Dad to come home, or for Mom’s TV show to finish.

I knocked on the door, a frayed plastic wreath at the center. I think this was the wreath we hung five or so winters ago. A moment later, the door creaked open, and I saw my mother again.

“Hello, Mom.”

“Hello, Oliver. I’m glad you got here safe,” she stretched her arms out, and I gave her a stiff, awkward hug. 

“Yeah.” I could tell Mom was smoking again. She reeked of cigarettes, and her leathery voice grated on my ears.

We broke the hug and entered the living room, which was only lit by a dim, yellow lamp, while the smell of mildew lingered.

“Dad’s room is upstairs, where you and your brother used to stay. Oh, and by the way, Steven already dropped by a few days ago. Took his share of Dad’s stuff, thought you should know,” she said before slumping into her favorite armchair and resuming her television. It seems they have been sleeping in separate rooms; it sucks that they had to use mine and Steven’s room, though.

“Alright.” I did not have much else to say, and Mom was preoccupied with her show as usual, so I went to climb the stairs and into his room. Just like Mom said, my brother really did take his share of Dad’s possessions—the rifle was gone, so were the vinyls and a bunch of other stuff. It was nice to know my brother might still be into hunting. I never picked it up from Dad, and ever since he left for college, he’d barely spoken to us. Wherever he is, I pray he’s doing well.

I scoured what was left of his belongings: his set of watches, a couple of flannel shirts, the few photographs he had of me and Steven—Dad died a simple man. I could only wish I knew more of him. Gathering what little I had and placing them in a box, I exited the room and descended the stairs, and found Mom still watching television, but this time, with a cigarette in her hand.

Only then did it strike me how familiar this all seemed. Here she was again, her attention etched on something, somewhere else. Steven always talked about it, saying how little Mom cared about us, how Dad never bothered to show up. He would ramble on and on about wanting to leave this household for good, that he would take me with him if I wanted to. But I didn’t, I thought that if I tried hard enough, then maybe she would actually look at us, that Dad would spend time with the family rather than his buddies or work. I believed it would all work out—even when my brother left, and we never heard of him again, I kept hoping.

But the years that followed proved me wrong. I tried being a good son, an excellent student, a hard worker—I couldn’t make them care. I couldn’t make Mom get off her couch, and I couldn’t make Dad spend a day with me. I never understood why, and by the time I had pooled enough cash to live on my own, I had forgotten to wonder anymore. Admittedly, I still share that same sentiment. I mourned the hopeful boy I was, but no longer, and I face the reality I live in.

I continued walking toward the door, and when my hands grasped the doorknob, I heard her speak. 

“Take care, Oliver.” 

I considered looking back to see if she looked my way, to see if Mom had changed her ways, to see if I could find the love I’ve searched for so long. For a moment, I became that hopeful little boy again, the boy who wanted to see his parents care, the boy who would settle with the slightest hint or the smallest glimmer in their eyes. 

But that boy was already long gone—like Steven was. 

And I could no longer shoulder the weight that hope gave me. I’ve already mourned what my family could have been. It was time to move on. 

I turned the knob and exited. Without looking back, I replied,

“You too.”