The living room hadn’t changed much. It had the same faded couch, same crooked family portrait hung too high above the TV. The curtains were drawn, letting only thin streams of light break through the dusty lace. 

I lowered myself into the brown armchair, the one that squeaked when I sat on it, clutching my hands to keep them steady. My heart was racing. 

My mother stood in front of me, arms crossed tightly, gaze sweeping over me slowly. Like she was calculating. Almost like she ...