The Morning After

The kitchen light was on when I came in.

Mom stood at the counter with a mug in one hand, coffee steam lifting past her face. She didn’t look up. Dad was in the study with the door cracked, the edge of his chair visible through the gap. My brother sat at the table in his soccer sweatshirt, spooning cereal out of a bowl and glancing at me between bites.

No one asked where I’d been.

I stopped in the doorway with my duffel hanging from one shoulder and watched the milk drip from his spoon back into the bowl. On the table was the blue cake from last night, half covered in plastic wrap, the white letters still smeared where someone had cut it. One candle had bent into the frosting.

Mom took a sip and set the mug down. “You’re home.”

That was all.

I went to the sink and stood there with my hands on the edge. The tile was cold through my socks. My throat felt scraped raw from the walk and from not sleeping much on Lena’s couch. I could still hear last night in my head, the scrape of the chair, the sound my own voice made when it broke.

Dad called from the study, “Are you here to start something again?”

I turned toward the cracked door. He didn’t come out.

Mom folded her arms. “If you’re going to make a scene, do it somewhere else.”

I laughed once, but it came out thin.

I said, “I need my things.”

My brother kept eating. He had yogurt on the corner of his mouth. He watched me like I was a TV with the sound off.

Mom’s eyes finally met mine for half a second, then slid away. “Go get what you need and be quick.”

Upstairs, my room looked smaller than I remembered. One shoe by the closet. Books stacked wrong on the desk. The blanket still folded at the foot of the bed, like I might come back and smooth it out. I pulled open the drawer and started with clothes, folding what fit into the duffel without caring if they wrinkled.

My laptop went in next, wrapped in a hoodie. Then my chargers, my journal, the little box where I kept my passport and bank card, the framed photo from middle school that somehow hadn’t made it into the trash yet. I stood there with my hands in the drawer, checking the corners for anything I’d miss later.

The bag got heavy fast.

When I came back down, Mom was still at the counter. Dad was still in the study. The house felt arranged around not noticing me.

I set the duffel by the front door.

Mom saw it and straightened. “If you walk out, you don’t come back in here.”

For a second nobody moved. My brother’s spoon stopped halfway to his mouth.

I looked at her. “Fine.”

Her jaw tightened. Dad said, “Don’t be stupid.”

I put my hand on the knob.

Behind me, the cereal bowl clinked against the table. The blue cake sat under plastic on the counter, lit only by the kitchen light.

I opened the door and stepped outside.