Chapter 1 — Homecoming Shadows

Meg

Greenhill hadn’t changed much in three years. The oaks still arched over the roads, their branches intertwining like old friends in a familiar embrace. Yet, they seemed heavier now, laden with time and memories. Houses sat in neat rows, their porches framed by flowering vines that thrived in the summer heat. As the car rounded the corner, the football field came into view, its bleachers glinting in the late afternoon sun. My chest tightened, an ache unfurling beneath my ribs as the sight stirred something sharp, uninvited. I focused on the cracked leather of the car seat, willing the feeling to dissipate.

“Meg, you doing okay?” Mom asked, her voice light, casual. Too casual. Her eyes flicked toward me from the driver’s seat, the question hanging between us like the words she hadn’t said all morning.

I shrugged, pulling the edges of my hoodie tighter around me. “Yeah. Just tired from the drive.”

Mom nodded, her lips thinning slightly. She didn’t press, but the flicker of worry in her expression was as familiar as the scent of her perfume. Emily, oblivious in the backseat, leaned forward, her oversized green football jersey swaying with her every bounce.

“Coach Tobias said we get to pick plays this year! Well, kind of. He said it’s about strategy or something,” she said, her words tumbling over each other. “Oh! And guess what, Meg? I got number seven! Dad’s number! Isn’t that cool?”

The ache spread from my chest to my throat, and I swallowed hard. “Yeah,” I said finally, my voice flat. “That’s great, Em.”

Her excitement didn’t falter, though I caught the briefest flicker of confusion in her wide green eyes. She launched into a spirited rundown of her practice drills, her small hands slicing through the air as she mapped out plays. Mom smiled faintly—a bittersweet curve of her lips that didn’t quite reach her eyes. I turned to the window, watching the streets blur past, each one lined with memories I wasn’t ready to confront.

As we pulled into the driveway, the house came into view, its faded red front door as familiar as the ache now lodged firmly in my chest. Flowerpots lined the porch, their bright blooms incongruous against the heaviness weighing me down. None of us moved at first, the hum of the car engine filling the silence. Emily was unusually still, her gaze fixed on the flowers.

“Home sweet home,” Mom said softly, her voice carrying a tentative hope. She stepped out, the gravel crunching beneath her shoes. Emily bounded after her, the jersey billowing around her small frame as she disappeared up the steps. I lingered, my grip tightening around the door handle as if it could anchor me to the moment.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of cinnamon and wood polish, wrapping around me like a memory I couldn’t escape. The living room looked the same—mismatched furniture, family photos lining the mantle—but it felt different. Emptier. A quiet undercurrent of absence hummed through the space. My gaze snagged on a familiar photograph of Dad, his arm slung around Mom as they laughed, the sheer joy in the image like a sucker punch to the gut.

“Meg, can you help Emily set the table?” Mom’s voice cut through the haze, grounding me.

I nodded automatically, though she was already in the kitchen. Emily was humming to herself, her tune off-key and unmistakably hers, as she rummaged through the silverware drawer. I grabbed a stack of plates and followed her to the dining room.

“You don’t have to stay in your room all summer, you know,” Emily said suddenly, the words tumbling out with a matter-of-fact sharpness. “There’s, like, a whole town out there. And football.”

The plates wobbled slightly in my hands as I froze mid-step. “I’m not staying in my room,” I said, sharper than I intended. “And what’s so great about football, anyway?”

Emily blinked, her enthusiasm dimming just a fraction. She clutched her jersey, her fingers brushing the frayed hem. “Football’s Dad’s thing. And mine.”

“Yeah, I know,” I muttered, setting the plates down harder than necessary. The clink of porcelain echoed in the quiet room. “I just... never mind.”

Emily’s face fell, but she said nothing, retreating to the kitchen for glasses. I sank into one of the chairs, tracing the scarred wood of the table with my finger. Near the center was a small gouge Dad had left years ago, right before Thanksgiving dinner. He’d laughed it off, saying it added character. Now it felt like just another piece of him frozen in time, a reminder of what couldn’t be repaired.

Dinner was a quiet affair, punctuated by Emily’s chatter about football and Mom’s polite questions about my classes. Rick’s name didn’t come up, though Mom’s expression softened every time Emily mentioned him. Resentment flared in my chest, an unwelcome heat I tamped down with practiced silence.

After dinner, Emily darted upstairs with a promise to “show me something cool later,” her footsteps rattling the ceiling. Mom stayed in the kitchen, her movements steady and efficient as she scrubbed at stubborn dishes. I leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching her.

“So, Rick,” I said, careful to keep my tone neutral. “Is he... around?”

Mom paused, her hands stilling over the soapy water. “He’ll be over tomorrow for dinner,” she said finally, her voice calm but edged with something I couldn’t place. “I thought it’d be a good chance for you two to talk.”

“Talk,” I echoed, a bitter laugh slipping out. “Right. Like we have so much to catch up on.”

“Meg,” she said softly, turning to face me. Her brown eyes met mine, steady and patient in a way that only made me feel worse. “I know this is hard. For all of us. But Rick is—”

“Not Dad,” I cut in, my voice sharper than I intended. The words hung in the air, jagged and irrevocable. “He’s not Dad, Mom. And he never will be.”

Her shoulders sagged slightly, her tired sigh filling the space between us. “I’m not asking you to replace your father,” she said, quieter now. “But Rick is a good man. And he cares about us.”

“Good for him,” I muttered, pushing off the doorway. “I’m going to bed.”

I barely made it halfway up the stairs before her voice stopped me. “Meg,” she called, her tone firmer now, though still gentle. “You’re not the only one who loved him.”

The words struck harder than I expected, leaving my throat tight and useless. I didn’t reply, just continued up the steps, my legs heavy with a weight I couldn’t shake.

My room smelled faintly of dust, its cluttered desk and faded posters untouched, as if the past three years hadn’t happened. I sat on the edge of the bed, my gaze catching on the football peeking out from under the closet door. The leather was worn, its logo faded, but the carved initials—MW—remained intact, stark against the scuffed surface.

I should’ve gotten rid of it. Instead, it lingered, its presence a quiet reminder of everything I refused to face.

“Meg?” Emily’s voice floated through the door, hesitant and small. “Can I come in?”

I hesitated, my fingers curling into fists before I forced them to relax. “Yeah,” I said finally.

She poked her head in, her gap-toothed smile faltering slightly as she stepped inside. “I wanted to show you this,” she said, holding out a Polaroid. It was faded and frayed, the edges curling slightly, but the image was unmistakable: me, maybe eight years old, perched on Dad’s shoulders outside the diner. We were both grinning, carefree in a way that felt distant now.

“Mom found it in the attic,” Emily said, climbing onto the bed beside me. “I thought you might want it.”

I took the photo carefully, my hands trembling as a wave of emotion surged and ebbed. The ache in my chest softened, no longer sharp but still present, like a bruise that would never fully fade. “Thanks,” I murmured, my voice barely audible.

Emily leaned into my side, her warmth a small yet steady comfort. “It’s okay to miss him,” she said softly. “I miss him too.”

I didn’t answer, but I didn’t push her away either. For the first time in what felt like ages, I let the silence settle, its weight lighter than I’d expected. And for now, that was enough.