Page 31 of Entwined
“I know,” I whispered, tears welling up again. “But I don’t know how to stop feeling this way.”
He pulled me into his arms, holding me close as I clung to him, my body trembling with the weight of everything I had been holding inside. For a moment, I let myself lean on him, feeling the comfort of his embrace. But even as I did, I couldn’t shake the fear that I was losing control, that this was just the beginning of a downward spiral I might not be able to pull out of.
Chapter 13
I took the time I desperately needed, retreating to my parents’ house where I could finally let the world slow down. Despite the wealth I’d grown accustomed to, this was where I felt truly at peace. The mansion, with its grand halls and towering ceilings, had never felt like home. It was more like a gilded cage, a place where appearances mattered more than comfort. Here, in my parents’ home, it was different.
The house wasn’t small by any means, but my mother had a way of making it feel cozy, wrapping every corner in warmth and love. The scent of freshly baked goods always lingered in the air, curling its way into every room, a reminder that some things in life remained simple and sweet. I’d often hear the soft hum of my father’s snores coming from the living room, a sound that filled me with a sense of security I hadn’t realized I’d been missing.
This was home.
I wandered into the kitchen, where the light from the setting sun filtered through the curtains, casting a golden glow on the countertops. My mother was there, as always after work, her hands dusted with flour as she kneaded dough, humming a tunefrom some forgotten song. Seeing her there, so grounded and real, made the tension in my chest ease a little.
“Joey, did you have a nice nap,” she said, looking up with a smile that reached her eyes. She wiped her hands on her apron and opened her arms, and I didn’t hesitate to step into them, burying my face in her shoulder. The familiar scent of vanilla and lavender surrounded me, and I breathed it in deeply, letting it soothe the ache inside me.
“I needed this,” I whispered, my voice muffled against her shirt.
Her hands stroked my hair, gentle and reassuring. “I know, sweetheart. It’s been a rough time.”
I pulled back slightly to look at her. “It feels like everything happened so fast. I didn’t get a chance to breathe, to adjust. Now I don’t know where I belong.”
She cupped my face in her hands, her touch warm and comforting. “You belong here, with your family. Take all the time you need. This life,” she gestured around the kitchen, “is yours to come back to whenever you need it.”
I nodded, feeling the sting of tears behind my eyes. “I miss it. I miss you and Dad. I miss the simplicity of it all.”
“And we miss you,” she said softly. “But we’re proud of you, Joey. You’ve taken on so much, and you’ve done it with grace. But it’s okay to step back and take care of yourself.”
I heard a faint rustling behind me and turned to see my father standing in the doorway, his hair tousled and his eyes sleepy. He gave me a grin that was both tired and full of love. “Is that my girl?” he asked, his voice deep and warm.
“Hi, Dad,” I said, smiling as he shuffled over to us.
He wrapped me in a bear hug, his embrace strong and steady. He smelled like fresh cut grass and fermented leaves. “You look like you’ve been carrying the world on your shoulders. You need to put it down for a while, Joey.”
I leaned into him, feeling the tension in my body slowly start to unwind. “I think I might just do that.”
“Good,” he said, patting my back before releasing me. “Now, how about we all sit down and have a slice of your mom’s apple pie? It’s just out of the oven.”
The thought of warm pie and the comfort of my parents' presence brought a genuine smile to my face. “That sounds perfect.”
We gathered around the kitchen table, the three of us, just like old times. As I listened to my parents talk, their voices mingling with the sounds of the evening, I felt a sense of calm settle over me. This was what I needed—time to remember who I was before everything changed. Time to feel loved without the weight of expectations pressing down on me. Time to just be Joey, the daughter, the girl who found peace in her mother’s hugs and her father’s reassuring presence.
For the first time in what felt like forever, I let myself relax. I let myself be home.
With my parents at work, I found myself alone in the house. The quiet was a stark contrast to the usual bustle of my life, but it wasn’t unwelcome. This was their new home, a place I’d onlyvisited a few times since they moved in, but today I felt the urge to explore it more deeply.
I started downstairs, where my father had transformed the finished basement into his dream mancave. It was the kind of space he’d always wanted but never had until now. The pool table was centered under a hanging light, the bar stocked with his favorite spirits, and a media room with plush recliners faced a large flat-screen TV.
The walls were adorned with memorabilia from his favorite sports teams, each piece meticulously arranged. I could almost hear his laughter echoing from the last time he had friends over for a game night.
I wandered around the room, trailing my fingers over the leather of the pool table, imagining him here, the clink of billiard balls and the murmur of conversation filling the space. There was a comfort in knowing he’d finally gotten his sanctuary.
Upstairs, I found my mother’s retreat—a guest room she’d turned into a sewing room. The room was bright, with large windows that let in the afternoon sunlight, and her old sewing machine sat proudly against one wall. It was the same machine she’d had for as long as I could remember, its surface worn smooth from years of use.
The sight of it brought a rush of memories, and I couldn’t resist opening the closet where she kept her box of patterns. I pulled it out and sat on the floor, cross-legged, as I began to flip through them. The familiar rustling of the thin tissue paper brought a smile to my face. There were so many, just as there had been when I was a child.
I found the one she’d used to make my Halloween costume when I was eight. The edges of the envelope were frayed, and the illustration on the front showed a little girl dressed as a pumpkin, the same costume she had made for me out of bright orange felt. I could still remember the feel of the fabric, the way it swished when I walked, and how proud I’d been to wear something my mother had made with her own hands.
Gently, I traced the outline of the pumpkin on the pattern. “You really outdid yourself with this one, Mom,” I whispered to the empty room.
