The screen of Elena’s iPhone glowed against her dimly lit Amsterdam apartment. She had just returned from a twelve-hour hospital shift, where the last patient of the evening had cried into her scrub top after receiving devastating test results. Her bones ached, her makeup had smudged from being half-rushed between her nursing and modeling duties earlier in the week, and yet her hair—dark chestnut waves that seemed to fall effortlessly around her shoulders—still had a life of its own, as though even exhaustion couldn’t dull it.

The phone buzzed again, insistent, and the words “Mom” blinked on the screen. Elena sighed and tapped accept.

“Elena, my love!” her mother’s voice rang out immediately, cheerful and warm, the way it always was. On the screen, Elena saw her mother’s perfectly made-up face framed by her glossy black bob. Somehow, even though she was in her mid-fifties, Mrs. Brooks managed to look like she could walk a runway herself. The camera shifted, revealing the glittering background of their Las Vegas home—a chandelier dripping with crystals above the living room and, behind her, the unmistakable shimmer of desert evening lights filtering through tall windows.

“Hi, Mom,” Elena said, kicking off her white sneakers and curling up on the couch. “You look… fabulous, as usual. Did you just get back from a party or something?”

Her mother tilted her chin, pretending to look offended. “What do you mean ‘or something’? Darling, I hosted the party. The neighborhood gala. Your father says I overdid it with the champagne fountain, but what’s the point of being alive if you can’t sparkle?”

Elena smirked, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m fabulous,” her mother corrected smoothly, before lowering her voice, dramatic. “But you, Elena… you look exhausted. Again. All those hospital hours and photo shoots—when was the last time you let someone pamper you, hm?”

Elena chuckled, leaning into the couch cushions. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe never. Nurses aren’t exactly pampered, Mom. And the modeling? That’s work too. Don’t be fooled by the glamorous photos—you know I’d rather be in scrubs half the time.”

“Scrubs and syringes,” her mother teased. “Always saving the world. You inherited your father’s stubborn heart of service, but you forget you’re also mine. Which means you deserve the finer things.”

“Like private jets and champagne fountains?”

“Exactly!” Mrs. Brooks beamed proudly. “Now, speaking of finer things, we need to discuss Thanksgiving.”

Elena groaned, stretching her legs across the couch. “Mom—”

“No excuses,” her mother cut in, wagging a manicured finger at the camera. “This year, I want all my children home. Your brothers are already booked. And don’t even think of saying you can’t—because I’ve checked flights from Amsterdam. There are perfectly timed ones.”

Elena ran a hand down her face. “You actually checked flights?”

“Of course. Someone has to look after you! You’ll fly into McCarran on Tuesday night. We’ll pick you up in the limo. Done.”

Elena laughed, a low melodic sound. “I haven’t even agreed.”

“You will. Because you miss us. And because you haven’t had your mother’s pecan pie in three years, and if that doesn’t tempt you, then clearly you’ve been replaced by some Dutch impostor.”

Elena tilted her head, eyes narrowing at the screen. “Emotional blackmail. Really?” “Darling, it’s called maternal persuasion.”

Elena’s laughter filled the apartment, echoing against the tall windows. She hadn’t realized how much she missed that energy—her mother’s dramatic, affectionate way of making everything feel urgent and beautiful all at once. For a moment, she felt like she was fifteen again, rolling her eyes at her mother’s insistence that family dinners were sacred, even when teenage Elena thought nothing was sacred except the eyeliner she applied too heavily back then.

“Mom, I don’t know if I can,” Elena said finally, though her voice softened. “The hospital’s short-staffed, and the agency’s got campaigns lined up—”

“Elena Brooks,” her mother interrupted with queenly authority, “you save lives every day, and you strike poses that make people want to buy thousand-dollar handbags. But when was the last time you sat at the family table, broke bread with us, and laughed until you cried?”

Elena opened her mouth, then shut it. Her mother’s words hit harder than expected. She glanced around her sleek apartment—minimalist white walls, a few framed art prints, the single orchid plant she’d managed to keep alive. It was beautiful, it was hers, but it was… quiet. Too quiet.

“You’re thinking about it,” her mother said triumphantly. “I can see it in your face. That’s the Brooks stubbornness melting.”

Elena rolled her eyes dramatically, but she couldn’t fight the smile tugging at her lips. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m irresistible,” her mother shot back. “And your father says he won’t carve the turkey until his baby girl is home. Do you want to starve us all?”

That earned a belly laugh from Elena. “You’re both insane.”

“Insanely in love with you,” her mother said, voice suddenly softer. The dramatic humor slipped for just a moment, replaced with something more tender. “Come home, Elena. Just for a week. You work too hard, my darling. You deserve to be surrounded by family, not just patients and photographers.”

Elena swallowed. That quiet vulnerability always disarmed her more than the teasing did. She thought of her last Thanksgiving in Las Vegas—the chaos of cousins spilling cranberry sauce, her brothers fighting over the wishbone, her mother insisting on taking family photos before anyone could eat. She had been gone too long.

“Alright,” Elena whispered. “I’ll come.”

Her mother gasped theatrically, clutching her chest. “Finally! The prodigal daughter returns!” “Don’t make it sound like I’ve been wandering the wilderness for forty years,” Elena muttered,

smirking.

“Darling, you might as well have,” her mother declared. “Now, text me your flight details as soon as you book. I’ll prepare your room, and we’ll celebrate properly. Maybe even invite the Garcias from next door—they still ask about you, you know. Their son is—”

“Mom!” Elena warned, laughter bursting through. “No matchmaking. Please.” Her mother’s eyes glimmered mischievously. “We’ll see.”

The call ended with her mother blowing kisses into the camera and Elena shaking her head, grinning despite herself. As the screen went dark, the silence of her apartment settled in again—but this time, it wasn’t lonely. It was filled with anticipation. For once, she wasn’t dreading leaving her carefully curated world. She was… curious. Excited, even.

For Thanksgiving, she would go home.

And though she didn’t know it yet, stepping onto that flight would change her life in ways no runway or hospital ward ever could.