Coming Home
It had been two long years since I left home.
Two years of eating microwaved noodles, staying up late with textbooks, and trying to sleep in a room where my mom’s voice no longer reached me.
No matter how far I went—how many dorm rooms I moved into or how many new routines I picked up—my mother’s grave followed me. Not literally, of course. But it lived inside me. Like a quiet song I could never mute. Always humming behind everything I did.
My mom, Miranda, died when I was fifteen.
Breast cancer. Fast and brutal. One month, she was laughing in the kitchen while painting sunflowers on mugs and baking those orange-cardamom muffins she loved… and the next, she was in a hospital bed. Weak. Smiling through pain. Her voice softer than the beeping machines beside her. When she left us, everything cracked. Our home, our hearts—everything.
Asher, my little brother, was only ten. He didn’t cry after the funeral. Not once. Instead, he left notes under his pillow for Mom, like she was a magical spirit who could come collect them in the night. Sometimes I’d sneak into his room and read them. They were filled with hope. So much hope that it hurt.
And I’d have to remind myself—I was still a kid too.
About a year after she died, my dad, Lucas, met someone. Sandra.
“She’s warm,” Dad had said, one evening at dinner. “You’ll really like her, Asher.”
He told me they met at a school fundraiser. She was delivering flowers. The way he smiled when he said her name made my stomach twist.
Sandra had a soft voice and wore flowy skirts that swished when she walked. She liked to talk about lemon essential oils and energy healing. And how colors in a room could “shift your mood.” She also believed eucalyptus oil in our shampoo would make our mornings more “fresh.”
At first, I tried. I really did. I smiled when she came over. I even complimented her earrings once because I could tell she was nervous.
But it didn’t take long for that discomfort to crawl deeper.
The humming in the kitchen where Mom used to sing. The way Sandra casually opened the linen closet, like it belonged to her. As if she belonged in our house.
Then she moved in.
And everything started changing.
She called it “freshening up” the house. What it really meant? Erasing my mom.
The framed family photos vanished from the hallway. I remember stopping in front of that blank wall, whispering, “What the hell?”
And it didn’t stop there. The painting my mom made of a rainy street corner—that soft, beautiful one I loved—was suddenly gone too.
When I asked Sandra about it, she didn’t even look up from her laptop. “Oh, that one had water damage, sweetie. Smelled like mold. We couldn’t have that in the house.”
“Funny,” I said, arms crossed. “It didn’t smell when I left for school this morning.”
She gave me the kind of smile you give to a toddler throwing a tantrum.
“Eden, honey,” she said slowly, “Your dad and I agreed. A cleaner space will help all of us move forward.”
“You mean forget her?” I snapped, feeling fire in my throat.
“Eat an orange, dear,” she said, brushing it off. “You’ve been looking pale lately. It’ll help your skin.”
Then came the worst day.
I walked into the house one afternoon and saw three black garbage bags by the front door. My stomach dropped before I even opened one. I just knew.
Inside: my mom’s clothes. Her scarves. Her oversized cardigan. The blouse she wore on her last birthday. All folded neatly. Labeled for donation.
I stormed into the living room.
“What the hell is this?!”
Sandra stepped out of the kitchen, drying her hands. “It’s time, Eden. These things are keeping you all stuck. It’s time for you three to be free.”
“But they’re my… mom’s!” I cried, my voice breaking.
“I know this hurts, Eden,” she said, her voice lowering. “But she’s gone.”
“You don’t get to do this, Sandra. You don’t get to take her away from us!”
My dad walked in then, rubbing the back of his neck like he was preparing to handle a child’s tantrum.
“Eden, please, baby,” he said. “We’re trying to create a livable space again. Mom’s spirit—it’s everywhere. It’s hard to move forward when we’re surrounded by so much pain.”
Sandra smiled at him like a proud student. “That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to achieve in this home… new light and new beginnings.”
That night, I sat at my desk and applied to every college that was far away. The farther, the better. I just had to survive a few more months.
When it was time to go, I packed early and left without looking back.
I promised Asher I’d call every Sunday. He always asked if I was eating anything besides cereal. I asked about soccer and his silly comic books. But if I heard Sandra’s voice in the background? I hung up.
But then spring break came.
And I couldn’t explain it—this sharp pull in my chest. Not homesickness. Something deeper. I missed Asher so badly it hurt.
I didn’t tell anyone I was coming. I booked a bus, packed my bag, and returned home without a word.
But I didn’t go straight to the house.
I went to the cemetery.
Mom’s grave was the one place untouched. No diffusers, no lemon oils, no “energy-clearing.” Just her. Just peace. Her headstone was simple, with a line from her favorite poem: “And still, like air, I rise.”
As I walked through the gate, I slowed down. Something felt… different.
Someone was already there.
A woman knelt in front of the grave. Her back to me. At first, I thought she might’ve known Mom. But then the sun hit her hair—and I knew.
Sandra.
She was wearing jeans and a pale blue sweater. Her hands moved through the dirt beside the headstone.
“What the hell are you doing?!” I shouted, my voice loud and full of rage. “Stop that right now or I’ll call the police!”
She jumped, startled. Her eyes wide. Her hands and knees were covered in soil, and her cheeks were streaked with tears.
“Eden,” she said softly. “Please, let me explain.”
But I didn’t want her words. I didn’t want more of her soft, gentle voice or her sad eyes. My fists were clenched.
“You shouldn’t be here, Sandra. You don’t belong here.”
“I know how this looks,” she said quietly. “But please, just look.”
So I did.
I looked down.
And my breath stopped.
She wasn’t destroying anything.
She was planting.
Neatly arranged in the soil were tulip bulbs—pale yellow and soft cream. My mother’s favorite. The kind she used to plant along our porch every spring.
Sandra reached into her bag and took out an envelope. She held it gently with both hands.
“I was just leaving this for your mom,” she said. “Photos of you and Asher. Your dad showed me the one you sent him last week… And this one is from Asher’s first soccer goal.”
I said nothing.
“I come here every week,” she continued. “I bring coffee sometimes. I sit and talk to her. I tell her how you’re doing. I clean the stone. I bring flowers. I try to keep her close.”
My knees gave out. I sank to the cold grass beside her.
“I thought you hated her,” I whispered.
Sandra shook her head. “No, Eden. I made a promise—to remember her. Not erase her.”
“When I was removing her things,” she said slowly, “it was because she asked your father to. She left him a letter. She wanted him to donate her clothes. She wanted to give you and Asher space to heal.”
I blinked, confused. “She left a letter?”
Sandra nodded. “Your dad couldn’t bring himself to do it. So I did.”
“I wanted to tell you,” she said, eyes full of regret. “But you were hurting. And your dad—he didn’t want to open old wounds.”
“I also made a promise to myself,” she continued, voice trembling, “that if I ever became a stepmother to kids who lost their mom… I would honor the woman who came before me. Because I’d want someone to do the same for me.”
I sat with that.
And slowly, I believed her.
We sat in silence until the wind picked up.
“I’ll meet you at home?” I finally asked.
She smiled. “I’m stopping by the store first. I’ll get everything you love for dinner.”
When I got to the house, the front door flung open.
“EDEN!!” Asher ran straight into me, hugging me like I was a superhero who’d come back to save the world.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming!”
“I wanted to surprise you,” I laughed, holding him tight.
“Are you crying?” he asked, squinting at my face.
“A little.”
“Did something bad happen?”
I looked at him and smiled.
“No. Everything is just fine.”
That night, the house smelled like rosemary and garlic. Sandra was in the kitchen, pulling roast lamb from the oven. Asher was setting the table with Christmas napkins.
“Christmas napkins?” I raised an eyebrow.
“It’s your welcome home dinner. Go big or go home!” Asher grinned.
I laughed and took my seat—the one that creaked a little. The one with the view of our backyard.
My dad placed a bowl of roasted potatoes on the table.
“She made pie too,” he whispered, pointing to the counter.
Pecan pie. My favorite.
“Thanks,” I said, my voice soft. I didn’t know who I was thanking—Sandra, maybe. Or all of them.
She looked up from the counter and gave me the smallest smile.
And for the first time in years…
I didn’t feel like a visitor.
I felt like I was home.
