The road stretched out before them, empty and sunlit, as Chandler’s car cruised along. He sat behind the wheel, his ever-present smile making him look like a man without a care in the world. With one hand on the steering wheel, he scrolled through his playlist with the other, searching for the perfect song to lighten the mood.
Beside him, Macy sat stiffly, arms crossed, her face set in a frown. She stared out the window, watching trees blur past, her irritation palpable. The silence between them was heavy, filled with the tension that had been building since the morning.
Finally settling on a song, Chandler’s face lit up. “Take Me Home, Country Roads” by John Denver filled the car. He tapped the steering wheel, grinning at Macy.
“Almost Heaven…” he sang, nudging her playfully. His voice was warm, hopeful, urging her to join in.
Macy didn’t budge. Her eyes remained fixed outside, her mood unshaken by Chandler’s attempt to cheer her up.
Determined, Chandler turned up the volume, belting out the next line, “Country roads, take me home, to the place I belong…”
Macy clenched her jaw. Finally, she muttered, “Turn it down.”
Instead of listening, Chandler only sang louder, his voice filling the small space between them. That was the last straw. Macy snapped forward and jabbed the player off. The music cut off, leaving behind a tense silence.
Chandler sighed. “What’s wrong? Did I do something?”
“It’s not you,” Macy said, voice tight. “I’m just not in the mood. You know why.”
Chandler’s expression softened. “Because of my mom, right?” He reached over to squeeze her hand, but she pulled away.
“She hates me, Chandler. She makes fun of everything I do—my cooking, my clothes, the way I talk. I can’t even breathe around her without being wrong.”
Chandler nodded solemnly. “I don’t know why she acts that way, Macy. But it’s just for the weekend. I’ll talk to her, I promise.”
Macy shook her head. “No. The last thing I need is her knowing I’ve been complaining about her. Let her do what she wants. I just don’t understand why she does it.”
Chandler smiled faintly. “We can’t change the direction of the wind…”
Macy sighed. “But we can adjust the sails.”
Chandler grinned. Macy hesitated, then pressed the play button again. “Country road! Take me home…” This time, they both sang, Chandler loudly, Macy softly. The tension eased, if only slightly.
They pulled into Linda’s driveway, the house looming ahead. The yard was overgrown, weeds creeping through the cracks in the pavement.
“I’ve told her so many times I could call someone to take care of this,” Macy muttered.
“You know how she is,” Chandler said. “She doesn’t like help.”
“Yes, yes. Everything herself. That’s Linda.” Macy rolled her eyes.
“Don’t mock her,” Chandler warned gently. “She’s still my mom.”
“I know,” Macy sighed. “It’s just that she’s so alone…”
“She’ll change,” Chandler reassured her. “With time.”
Just then, the front door swung open. Linda stepped out, wiping her hands on her apron. “Chandler! What took you so long? The food’s getting cold. Hurry up.”
“Hi, Mom.” Chandler smiled.
Macy forced a polite, “Hello, Linda.”
Linda barely looked at her. “Oh. You came. Welcome.”
Chandler glanced at Macy, giving her an encouraging nod before they stepped inside together.
The dining room was warm, filled with the rich aroma of stew. The table was set with fine china, a misleading display of hospitality. Macy sat stiffly as Chandler took his place.
Chandler beamed. “Mom, the stew is amazing! Just like when I was a kid.”
Linda’s lips twitched into a smirk. “Of course, dear. You probably don’t get meals like this at home.”
Macy felt the sting of the remark. She bit her tongue, forcing herself to stay silent.
“Mom, Macy cooks wonderfully,” Chandler said, hoping to defend his wife.
Linda’s gaze landed on a stain on Chandler’s shirt. She reached over and wiped at it. “And she takes such great care of your clothes too,” she added mockingly.
Macy gripped her fork so hard her knuckles turned white. Enough. She set it down and stood. “I’ll wash the dishes.”
As she left the room, she heard Linda whisper, “She can’t even eat properly because of her nerves…”
Macy’s blood boiled. She turned off the water, spun on her heel, and stormed back to the dining room.
“Great. So we’re telling the truth now?” Macy’s voice trembled with fury. “Then let’s be honest! Linda, do you know what a good hostess does? Keeps her home from looking like an overgrown swamp! But no, you’d rather pick apart my life than take care of your own!”
Linda’s face turned red. “You have no right—”
“No right?” Macy cut in. “You judge everything I do! But let’s talk about you. A lonely, bitter woman who makes herself feel better by ruining her own son’s happiness. You don’t deserve him.”
Chandler shot to his feet. “Stop it! Both of you!”
Linda’s eyes welled up. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she sank into her chair.
Macy shook her head, grabbing her coat. “I’m done.”
“Where are you going?” Chandler asked desperately.
“Away.” Macy slammed the door behind her.
She found herself at her late father’s house, the place she hadn’t visited in years. Dust coated the furniture, old memories lingering in every corner. She wandered to the attic, rummaging through boxes, searching for… something.
Then she found it. A stack of letters, yellowed with age. Each one addressed to her father. Each one signed by Linda.
Macy read in stunned silence. Linda had loved her father. He had left her, breaking her heart. And Macy—Macy was a constant reminder of that pain.
Suddenly, it all made sense.
Tears welled in her eyes. She pulled out her phone. Chandler answered on the first ring. “Where are you?”
“At my father’s,” she whispered.
“Please come back.”
“I will. Just give me time.”
When she returned, Linda and Chandler were waiting.
Linda opened her mouth to apologize, but Macy stopped her. Instead, she stepped forward and hugged her.
“I’m sorry… and so was my father.”
Linda stiffened, then melted into the embrace. The years of bitterness, misunderstanding, and pain unraveled in that moment.
There were no more words to be said.
Just a new beginning.
