I quicken my pace as I approach the familiar door of my parent's house, my heart thrumming against my ribs like a caged bird desperate for release.
I lift my hand to knock but pause, staring at the etched wood that has welcomed me countless times before.
"Come on, Emma," I mutter to myself, "you can do this." I don't know why I am so nervous. What am I expecting her to say?
The door swings open and there she stands—Chloe, my mother, with her comforting presence and an aura that seems to melt all my worries. Her smile, warm and familiar, crinkles the corners of her eyes, but it falters, just slightly, as she takes in the sight of me.
I realize then how loudly my heart must be speaking through the tension in my face, through my rigid shoulders and clenched fists.
"Emma, darling, what's
