She knocks on the door of the house she ran away from in a huff, with nothing but a backpack full of clothes and books, and a great big ego, fuelled by a teenage rage and sense of injustice, vowing never to come back.
She clutches the bouquet of tulips: the dark purple of a stormy sky - Mum’s favourites, then; are they still her favourites now?
The door is scuffed, paint peeling.
She runs a hand over the scratch she had keyed onto it when she left, her last angry statement. Still there, a testament to fiery rage long since replaced by regret, dusky navy, bitter in her throat.
Her parents were doing their best. Acting out of love for her. She hadn’t understood then. She does now.
Too late. Dad is gone. She’d bumped into Mrs Hull, who had been old then, ancient now, quite by chance at the market in the town she calls home nowadays.
When she heard about Dad, she couldn’t stop the tears that kept on coming, right there in front of the organic butcher, to her absolute mortification.
Mrs Hull had patted her back with a bony palm, said, ‘There, there. Your mum is still knocking about in that house, too big for her alone.’
More tears, tasting bitter blue, of sea and ache, time lost to petty misunderstanding.
Now she knocks again on the door she had slammed on her way out all those years ago, so hard that it seemed the whole house shook, and she waits, unsure of her welcome.
At long last, footsteps, that shuffling gait of her mum’s she’d know anywhere.
And then the door is flung open.
A woman standing there in her dressing gown, face lined and old before her time, hair grey and less of it than she remembers, pulled back into an untidy bun just as always. Brown eyes pools of sorrow, now crinkling at the corners as the woman’s face breaks into a smile.
And there, in that smile that lights up her whole body, the mum she remembers.
And then she is being pulled into a hug.
Mum smells just the same as always, of roses and comfort.
‘Just in time for a cuppa.’ Mum’s voice is croaky with emotion. ‘I’ve just put the kettle on. Welcome home, love.’
And she steps over the threshold, breathing deeply of the familiar, lemon and love scent of home.
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