The King Without a Queen

I could feel myself smiling when we drove by the field that I was so familiar with. But I couldn’t stop and appreciate the area where I spent most of my time as a kid.

Soon the scenery was replaced by another and then I found myself gazing at the neighborhood where I spent ten years of my life.

I was finally home, and more than happy about it.

One by one, the houses passed by. Some I was familiar with, others not so much. I noticed some were redecorated. Soon, the car slowed down and I came face to face with our house.

Our real house.

Home.

I giggled excitedly and my mother chuckled at my reaction. “You seem ecstatic, Phoebe,” my mother announced, taking off the seatbelt.

I followed her actions and said out loud, “Yes, mom. Look.” I pointed out to our house, “We’re finally home.”

Home.

Growing up, I always wanted to stay somewhere and make memories.

Of course, I had made many memories while traveling with my mom. I’d met many people, but they were all strangers.

I always had this feeling that I didn’t belong with them and, of course, I didn’t. They had their own life before I came into theirs and I only got a brief glimpse of how they lived.

They were what we called meeting halfway through the journey.

I wanted to be with someone who knew me from the beginning.

My mother smiled at me. “Come on, let’s go inside.” She pressed a button and unlocked all the doors.

I nodded eagerly, opened the door, and jumped outside.

The cool air kissed my skin as soon as I was out of the car. I loved it.

I didn’t wait for too long outside as I was too excited to see our house again.

I followed my mom to the house and waited patiently as she unlocked the door. I looked around the lawn and wondered if my mom would plant flowers over there again.

I remembered my mom was keen on gardening once. That changed when she decided photography was her true passion and took me out on the road with her.

Last week, she suddenly decided that she had enough and wanted to return. I was dumbfounded when she told me, but I kept my feelings at bay and didn’t ask her many questions.

I was afraid that she might change her decision.

My mom was impulsive. That was the explanation for most things in her life, including me. I wasn’t exactly planned-

On her twenty-first birthday, she decided she wanted to hook up and as a result, I was born. I never knew who my father was and neither did my mom.

She’d told me she was too drunk to even remember his voice.

She only remembered his name.

Aaron.

That all I knew about my father.

I looked like my mom. Short, barely reaching five-foot-five, with curly hair and a small nose. My eyes were gray, and I guess that was the only thing I got from my father, whoever he was.

The sound of the door squeaking loudly penetrated my thoughts and brought me out of my reverie.

I tended to zone out a lot.

My mom stepped inside the house, and I followed. The smell of dust hit my nostrils and I covered my nose immediately.

There was light sneaking in through the windows and I smiled as I saw the empty living room.

I was finally home.