Dad stepped out first, wearing the same navy blazer he wore whenever he wanted to look respectable. My mother followed, clutching her beige handbag like she expected the house itself to attack her. Brielle came last, sunglasses pushed on top of her head, lips tight, eyes moving across the stone driveway, the black iron gate, the landscaped path, the wide glass doors.
She looked like someone walking through a life she thought had been stolen from her.
I opened the front door before they could ring the bell.
For a second, no one spoke.
The last time the three of them had stood in front of me together, I had been holding a worn acceptance letter and asking for $8,000.
Now I stood in my own doorway wearing a cream blouse, tailored pants, and the kind of calm that cannot be bought.
“Avery,” Mom said, forcing a smile.
