The kitchen in my mother’s house still had the same yellowish ceiling light it had when I was seventeen.
It made everything look flatter than it was.
The beige cabinets.
The old counter with a chipped corner by the sink.
The refrigerator covered in grocery coupons, church reminders, and a small American flag magnet Linda had bought after Memorial Day and never taken down.
I stood beside the table with my hands relaxed at my sides, listening to the rain tap the glass over the sink.
For fifteen years, that sound had belonged to somewhere else in my memory.
Back then, it meant I was waiting for my mother to come home from a double shift.
It meant wet sneakers by the back door and microwave dinners on paper plates.
It meant telling myself I would leave one day and never come back unless I had a reason stronger than guilt.
