The airplane touched down with a dull, unceremonious thud, like it hadn't crossed an ocean at all. Just hopped from one forgettable place to another. Nela barely felt it. She had already unbuckled her seatbelt, already standing in the aisle before the light flicked on, her carry-on pressed against her leg like an anchor.
America smelled different.
Not better. Just heavier.
The air inside the terminal clung to her skin, humid and recycled, carrying traces of coffee, cleaning solution, and bodies in motion. Australia had taught her to breathe again, wide skies, salt, distance. Here, everything felt compressed. Closer, louder, as if the country itself leaned in too close and waited for you to react.
She didn't check her phone.
No missed calls mattered. No messages would soften what she already knew was waiting for her. The news had arrived weeks ago, in careful sentences and delayed replies, crossing time zones like an apology that never quite landed.
Your father passed peacefully.
Your mother is holding up.
You should come home when you can.
No one had mentioned the rest.
Outside, the summer heat wrapped around her immediately, thick and unapologetic. Nela stood on the curb for a moment, letting it settle, watching families reunite in clumsy hugs, couples arguing over luggage, a woman crying openly into her phone. Life continued in loud, ordinary ways. It always did.
Her rideshare pulled up late. The driver didn't talk. She was grateful.
As the car merged onto the highway, Nela watched the city peel past the window. Familiar buildings worn down by time, billboards advertising things she didn't want, exits she remembered by muscle memory rather than name. She thought she'd feel something sharper when she crossed back into this place. Anger, relief, even sadness. Instead, there was only a quiet, tightening resolve.
She hadn't told her mother she was coming.
That was intentional.
The house appeared at the end of the street like it always had. White exterior, trimmed hedges, a porch her father had repainted every other summer, even when it didn't need it. The lawn was neater than she remembered. Someone had been caring for it with purpose.
The car stopped. The meter ticked.
Nela paid, stepped out, and stood there with her suitcase by her side, staring at the front door. The windows reflected the sky back at her, hiding whatever waited inside. She imagined her mother in the kitchen, maybe. Imagined the familiar clink of a mug on the counter.
She did not imagine the man.
That omission felt deliberate, like her mind refused to offer him shape yet.
She took the steps slowly. The wood creaked under her weight unchanged, faithful in its complaint. When she opened the door, the hinge gave a soft groan, the sound too intimate, like the house recognizing her before the people inside could.
"Nela?"
Her mother's voice came from the living room, brittle with shock. Seline appeared in the doorway seconds later, one hand pressed to her chest, eyes wide as if she were seeing a ghost instead of her daughter.
"Oh my God," she breathed, "You didn't say... You didn't call..."
Nela dropped her suitcase and accepted the hug when it came, stiff at first, then tighter, desperate. Her mother smelled the same. Floral soap. Something medicinal beneath it.
"I wanted to surprise you," Nela said lightly, her voice steady. It sounded convincing. She hoped it was.
Seline pulled back, eyes glossy, already cataloging changes in her daughter's posture, her hair, the quiet confidence that hadn't been there before, "You look… different."
"So do you," Nela replied.
It wasn't unkind. It was true.
Her mother looked thinner. Straighter somehow. There was an alertness in her expression that hadn't existed before, as if she were bracing herself even now.
Before Nela could say more, a sound came from down the hall. A voice. Male. Calm. Unfamiliar.
"Nela?" the man called, "Is that you?"
The name landed wrong in his mouth.
Seline turned quickly, "David..."
He appeared moments later, stepping into view with the ease of someone who belonged there. Tall and composed, wearing a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, as if he'd been in the middle of something domestic and important. He smiled politely, the way adults do when meeting someone they've been told about but never seen.
"Nela," he said again, offering his hand, "I'm glad you made it."
She looked at his hand before she looked at his face. When she finally met his eyes, she found them observant rather than warm.
She took his hand. Briefly.
"Nice to meet you," she said.
A lie, but a civil one.
He nodded, as if accepting a transaction rather than a greeting, "Your room is ready. We kept it the same."
We.
The word lodged somewhere sharp.
Dinner was awkward in the way only grief can make things awkward. There were too many pauses, too much politeness. Seline spoke too much. David spoke just enough. Nela answered questions without offering anything back. She watched them instead.
The way her mother leaned slightly toward him when she laughed. The way he refilled her glass without asking. The way the house seemed to revolve around their shared gravity now.
Afterward, Nela retreated upstairs with an excuse about jet lag. Her old room smelled faintly of detergent and something new, lavender. The bedspread had been changed. The desk cleared.
Erased.
She sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the door until the sounds downstairs faded into nothing. Only then did she allow herself to exhale.
One month.
That was all it had taken.
She lay back, staring at the ceiling she'd memorized as a teenager, and let the weight of it settle fully into her chest, not just grief, but betrayal. Not just loss, but replacement.
Nela turned her head toward the window, where the late summer light bled orange into the sky.