I grab my tray of fresh cut mango and walk up the front steps of the house my parents moved into after I graduated. For whatever reason, it has never felt like home, so instead of letting myself in, I ring the doorbell.
I can hear my mom yelling for my dad to get the door then saying something like, “Never mind I’ll get it.”
There’s rustling behind the door as I imagine my mom standing on her tippy toes to look through the peephole. The door flings open. “Maddie! You are early. What a surprise.”
I shrug and step into her outstretched arms. “I missed you.” Never hurts to have a few brownie points in my back pocket.
“Ah, Filha.” My mother embraces me, wrapping me in the scent of roses and whatever goodness she has cooking. It smells like her famous barbecued pork and rice. I never allow myself to indulge like I do here. But I never take home any leftovers.
Mom lifts my arm off her shoulder and peeks around my side. “No man?”
I drop my arm. “No, Mom.”
Surprisingly, she simply nods and steps into the house instead of berating me.
I walk straight to the living room where my dad is watching a Suns’ game. “Hey, Dad.” I pat his shoulder and sit on the side of the couch closest to his recliner. He’s the one who got me into sports. He signed me up for every sport my little heart wanted to try, from golf to flag football. Until I decided volleyball was my one true love. I know he was disappointed when I didn’t continue with basketball, but he took me to every volleyball practice and stayed late with me for hours, hitting balls over the net for me to return. When he got tired, he’d resort to kicking the volleyball over the net. His consistent presence and support meant the world to me.
“Hi, sweetie. Did you see the game last week?”
“The three-pointer at the buzzer was insane.” I settle into the couch, enjoying the familiarity of this moment—sitting here with my dad, worrying about nothing except who is going to win the game. An hour later, I’m completely sucked in and swearing like a sailor—the way my dad taught me—at the refs and their stupid calls.
“You two calm down!” my mother shouts, tapping my dad’s shoulder with a spatula.
“They’re losing, and it’s all the ref’s fault,” Dad says.
The doorbell rings, and Mom shakes her head before scurrying over to open it.
The Suns are in foul trouble, with three of their starters warming the bench. And they are down seven with only fifty-five seconds left.
The Suns hit a three-pointer, bringing them only four points away.
“That’s the way, boys!” Dad yells at the TV.
I’m on the edge of the couch as the Cavaliers take the ball down the court. The point guard charges in, right through a Suns’ player, and they both end up crashing to the court.
The ref calls a block.
“Are you kidding?” It’s my turn to yell at the refs. “He practically tackled him. People go to jail for less than that!”
“Maddison!” My mother chides from somewhere over my shoulder.
My dad slips his hand over the couch for a high-five. “Good one.”
The TV goes black.
“Hey!” My dad hollers, and I leap to my feet to check the TV.
“We have a guest,” my mother says.
A guest? I don’t like the sound of that.
“Introductions can wait, dear. Put the game back on,” Dad says without facing Mom and herguest.
I turn, looking at my mother and the person she let in. She has a habit of taking in strays of the human and feline sort, but she rarely realizes how dangerous either can be.
My breath catches at the sight of a man my age. He’s not much taller than me, but he’s got rich dark skin and the smile of someone very entertained. “I usually stick with ‘hey ref, get your eyes checked,’ but I like yours better.”
Mom beams at me.
