Doesn’t Do Me Any Good
EPISODE 1
Autumn
“Ladies and gentlemen, we will soon be approaching our destination,” the pilot’s voice filters through the cabin. “Please secure your personal belongings and buckle your seatbelts.”
I don’t move.
I can’t.
Outside the window, clouds break into blinding white, then into nothing. My fingers clamp the armrest, and my cheeks are wet, but I don’t remember when the tears started.
I’m the last person to deplane, and only because two flight attendants helped me to stand.
I grab my bag and walk down the jetway like I’m not inside my body. My legs move, but the rest of me—whatever’s left—is still back in Seattle. Or maybe it’s frozen midair somewhere over God knows what state.
Everything ahead of me blurs until I seeher. A face I’ve known forever, torn apart just like mine.
“Autumnnnn.” My mother rushes toward me, flinging her arms around my shoulders. Her perfume—rosewater and rain—hits me so hard I almost fall apart in sobs.
“Oh, I’m so happy to see you. I can’t believe... I’m so sorry...”
“Me too.” It’s barely a whisper. It’s all I’ve got.
My dad wraps us both into a clumsy, too-tight hug. His voice drops like a stone: “We’ve been looking forward to seeing you again, Autumn.”
Just like that, years of silence fall away. Or pretend to.
When we finally break apart, a desk agent wordlessly hands us a box of Kleenex and we head for the exit.
Outside, Buffalo slaps me in the face with its special flavor of winter: wind sharp enough to slit skin, diesel and street salt soaking the air, and a sky the color of poured concrete.
My mom slides into the backseat beside me as my dad starts the car. Her hand folds over mine, and her grip tightens with every mile, like I might shatter if she lets go.
Still on edge, I stare into the rearview mirror every time my dad makes a turn.
I’m waiting to catch a glimpse of black SUVs, suspicious shadows, or men in suits with secrets in their eyes.
There’s nothing.
Only slush-streaked roads and a deafening quiet.
Still, something crawls under my skin, and I can’t help but feel like I brought ghosts home with me.
When we pull into the driveway, I can’t help but notice that the house hasn’t changed.
It’s still a weathered colonial with chipped shutters and a porch that creaks when stepped on too hard. It sits on a quiet street lined with bare maple trees and mailbox flags that never quite latch. Everything is exactly as I remember it—stubborn in the way only childhood places can be.
My mom gets out first and opens my door.
“Dare I ask,” she says, brushing snow off my shoulder, “are you crying because of ending things with Nate?”
“No.” I pause. “I ended things with him a while ago. We’re divorced.”
“What?” Her eyes sharpen.
“Divorced.” I say it again. Flat. Final. “It was finalized a while ago.”
