For years, I believed I had made peace with the past. But the expression on my parents’ cheeks when they arrived at my home door—a door they never anticipated me to own—showed me that old scars don’t heal that readily.
Especially if you’re the son who didn’t stick to their plan.
I never imagined I would see them again. After seventeen years, I’d accepted that I was nothing more than a failure to those who had left them.
But when my parents stood on the front steps of my house last Friday, their eyes scanning the area as if they’d gone up to the wrong door, I knew things were about to get interesting.
