A message shows up midweek, asking if Saturday works. Maybe Sunday too. A chance to step inside my home. To walk through the rooms where days unfold.
Back then, my mom saw me grab a paper on a platform - her eyes wet, pride thick in the air. Three years have passed without her setting foot in Seattle. That visit followed right after school ended. Now, something shifted. Her coming back isn't about endings. It carries weight. Like she wants to meet the person I am now, not just remember who I was. Time changed things. So did distance.
Friday is when I get things ready. Not too much - those days are behind me now. The apartment gets cleaned, gently, like dusting off an old photo. It isn't about making an impression - it's just easier if she sees where I really live. Shelves crammed full: some science of the mind, made-up stories, real lives spilled onto pages.
