Then she asked, “Did they take everything?”
“No.”
“What about my grandmother’s china?”
“Still there.”
“My photo albums?”
“Still there.”
“Your father’s box?”
“Still there.”
Her eyes closed.
“Thank God.”
Twenty minutes later, I drove her home.
It was after one in the morning when we reached the house.
The street was quiet.
Party cars were gone.
Music gone.
Lights dimmed.
Mom stayed in the passenger seat for several seconds after I parked.
I looked at her.
“You okay?”
She stared at the front door.
“I’m scared to go inside.”
That sentence broke something in me.
This woman had lived inside that house for two years.
And she was scared to enter it.
I got out, walked around, opened her door, and held out my hand.
“Then we go together.”
She took it.
We walked up the porch.
I gave her the new key.
She looked at it.
“You open it.”
“No.”
“Natalie.”
“It’s your home.”
Her hand trembled.
I wrapped mine around it.
Together, we put the key into the lock.
She turned it.
The door opened.
And for the first time since I arrived in America, my mother entered her home without needing anyone’s permission.
She stood in the foyer.
Then she began noticing things.
The entry table she had once loved had been replaced by a marble console Khloe chose.
Family photographs were missing.
Her old lamp was gone.
My father’s framed military picture had been moved from the living room into a hallway cabinet.
She walked toward it.
Picked it up.
Held it against her chest.
“They said it looked dated.”
I swallowed my anger.
“We’ll put it back.”
She looked at me.
“Where?”
“Wherever you want.”
We hung it above the fireplace at 1:47 in the morning.
It was crooked.
Neither of us cared.
The next morning, I woke to the smell of coffee.
For one confused second, I thought I was back in Dubai.
Then I heard Mom humming.
I walked downstairs.
She was in the kitchen in clean pajamas.
No oversized work clothes.
No bucket.
No scrub brush.
She had made eggs and toast.
I leaned against the doorway.
“What are you doing?”
She smiled.
“Breakfast.”
“You’re supposed to be resting.”
“I’m cooking because I want to.”
That distinction mattered.
I sat.
She placed a plate in front of me.
Then she sat across from me.
