The bus doors hiss open, and Willowbrook greets me the way it always has: softly, quietly, like a hug pretending it isn't one.
The air hits me first.
Damp earth, pine, and that faint sweetness from the bakery two blocks down. A smell I've inhaled my entire childhood. It drags something heavy through my chest: memory tangled with guilt, longing twisted with something I can't name.
I step off the bus and instantly feel smaller.
This town is built to make you remember who you were, not who you're trying to become.
The cracked sidewalk I used to race my bike down. The convenience store with the flickering "Open" sign that was always broken. Mrs. Olsen's blue house with her army of ceramic frogs on the porch.
Every inch of Willowbrook holds a version of me I never fully outgrew.
My fingers shake around the strap of my duffel bag.
This is where everything began.
And maybe where everything cracked.
The bus pulls away, kicking up dust and leaving behind the distant hum of people moving forward while I walk backward into old shadows.
My sneakers crunch on gravel. The sound is painfully familiar. Each step toward home feels like scraping away a layer of skin.
I pass the little wooden bridge over the creek, the place where Lena and I carved our initials when we were twelve.
A + L.
Not romantic back then.
Just two kids who still believed the world would be kind.
My stomach twists.
Lena is everywhere in this town.
Her laughter in autumn air.
Her hair flying behind her while she raced me across a field we pretended we hadn't outgrown. Her quiet voice under streetlamps, whispering things only I ever heard.
The knowledge that she's gone curls its fingers around my throat.
I force myself to keep walking.
The park where she pushed me off the swing on purpose.
The diner where she insisted fries dipped in ice cream was the superior combination.
Memory after memory hits like small stones.
But this visit isn't about her.
This time it's about the truth, about the lie my father let rot quietly through our lives.
About the boy who hates me for reasons I only learned last night.
About Samuel.
About us.
About something broken long before either of us existed.
I turn onto Maple Street.
There it is.
My grandmother's house with its peeling white fence, the garden she refuses to let die, the window where she used to tap whenever she saw me walking home alone.
My chest tightens.
This house is the last place that ever felt like unconditional love.
The gate groans when I push it open.
My heartbeat thunders as I climb the three wooden steps.
I raise my hand to knock.
I don't get the chance.
The door swings open like she has been waiting behind it all morning.
"Ashton?" she breathes, one hand flying to her mouth. Her eyes shine instantly. I don't remember the last time she used my full name. It was always 'Ash'.
I barely say her name before she pulls me into her arms.
I break.
Quietly and completely.
Her hug feels like forgiveness I never earned, like safety I forgot the taste of.
For a moment I am twelve again, carrying emotions too big for my hands.
"There you are," she whispers into my hair. "My beautiful boy. You came home."
I swallow hard. "Hi, Grandma."
She holds my face gently. "Oh darling, you look tired."
I swallow hard. If she looks too closely, she will see everything.
She takes my hand and pulls me inside, talking about tea and snacks and how much I have grown. Her voice trembles with relief.
The house smells like cinnamon and fried onions. I drop my bag by the couch and she immediately fusses at me to take my shoes off because she just vacuumed. I smile despite myself.
She moves through the kitchen like she is defending my soul through vegetables. When she sets a steaming bowl in front of me, pride softens her whole face.
"There. Your favorite. You used to inhale this like a tiny machine."
I taste it and the warmth hits me like a memory.
She watches my expression and her eyes soften.
"You should visit more, little leaf," she says quietly. "Your heart sounds heavy even from here."
I stare down at my bowl.
If she knew how heavy, she would crumble.
She touches my arm without asking questions.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
The house goes quiet after dinner.
Grandma kisses my forehead, mutters something about city boys forgetting to eat properly, and disappears into her room. The click of her door leaves the house wrapped in heavy silence.
I sit at the dining table with a cup of cooling tea.
My father sits across from me, relaxed in a way I'm not prepared for. He looks much better than I remembered. Surely, he's got his drinking habit somewhat in control. I pray it remains this way after our conversation tonight.
"Ash," he says gently, "I'm really happy you came home."
I nod, swallowing hard.
"Yeah. Me too."
The storm sits on my tongue, restless and waiting.
Dad stretches, rubs the back of his neck, lets out a tired sigh. "Work's been crazy, but hey, new job's treating me alright. My boss… isn't a jerk for once."
He kept talking. I barely hear any of it.
Finally, I speak.
"Dad, can I ask you something?"
He freezes halfway through a sip of water.
"Of course. Anything."
My voice stays steady even though nothing else does.
"Who was the woman you were in love with before Mom?"
The glass stops an inch from his lips. His eyes shift up to mine, startled and already afraid.
"Ash… why now?"
"Just tell me. Please."
He sets the glass down like it might break if he moves too quickly.
"A long time ago, I loved someone. It was messy. Complicated."
"That's not an answer."
His jaw tightens.
I breathe carefully.
"Her name was Maria. Right?"
His whole body goes still.
The color drains from his face.
He looks like a man caught between the past and the person he wants to be now.
"Ash…" he whispers.
"It's her. Isn't it? Samuel's mother."
Silence hits the table like weight.
Then he nods.
Once.
The truth punches the air out of my chest.
"I loved her," he admits, voice rough. "More than I thought I could love anyone. Her family hated me. They made it clear that if I cared about her, I would leave.I was terrified of ruining her life. I thought stepping away was… protecting her. I didn't know she was pregnant. I swear to you, Ash, I didn't know."
I swallow a sharp breath.
"And when you found out?"
"Samuel was already twelve. Maria was married. And I… I was with your mother."
My chest twists.
"You knew when I was ten," I say. "That's when you and Mom started fighting."
"Yes." His voice breaks. "I told Claire everything. I felt she deserved to know everything. It tore us apart. We never recovered."
"Why didn't you tell me?" My voice cracks. "All these years…"
"What good would it have done?" he asks, tears filling his eyes. "They were trying to give Samuel a stable life. I didn't want to tear apart another family. I didn't want you to grow up hating me, or hating a brother you never met."
That word hits me again.
Brother.
It still feels unreal.
"I'm not asking for forgiveness," he whispers. "I know I've hurt you. I never meant for my mistakes to spill into your life."
I let out a trembling breath.
I don't feel anger.
Just sorrow for the boy he once was, scared and alone, making choices that followed us decades later.
I reach across the table and take his hand.
He flinches like he doesn't deserve it.
"You're trying now," I say softly. "That counts."
He breaks. A quiet sob escapes him.
I squeeze his hand.
After a long time, we sit together not as a wounded son and a flawed father but as two people finally facing the truth.
And breathing through the hurt together.