Susan sat there, jittering, her arms tense, her hands sweaty. She looked out the window, she blinked, she looked ahead. She took a deep breath. She looked back. She sighed. A single long exhale. Emptying her lungs. She looked ahead. She closed her eyes. She breathed. In. out. In. out. She tilted her head back. She opened her eyes. She looked up. She clenched her fists. She looked down. Her nails dug into her palms. Grown, not long. Cut, not sharp. Nervous, not chewed. Never chewed. Shows you’re nervous. She breathed. In. out. In. out. She looked ahead. She looked out the window. She got out the car. She stood. Shivering, tense, unmoving. Her body immobile, swaying, fragile. She stepped. One. Two. One. Two. She was off of the walkway now, on the path forwards. She paused. One second. Two. Three. She breathed. In. out. In. out. She stepped. One. Two. One. Two. She stood before the porch, three steps to go. Her eyes sweated. Rolled in her head. Her pupils dilated. She breathed. In. out. In. out. She stepped. One. Two. One. She stood before the door. Her rhythm was out. She looked down. She stamped her foot. Two. She looked up. She breathed. In. out. In. out. The door towered before her, white, grey in the fading light. So old, so familiar, so different. She reached out. She stopped. Her hand fell. She looked down. Her fists clenched. Tendons rose in her wrists. She looked up. She closed her eyes. She opened them. Her hand was at the door. She looked on. Her eyes widened. Her knuckle struck. Once. Twice. Once. Twice. Her hand fell. She stepped back. She stopped. She froze. She trembled. Her foot moved. She stood. Her hands clenched. Her back straightened. Her head rose. Her shoulders shifted. She blinked. She looked down at her hands. They were clenched far too tightly. She loosened her grip, and saw the pale red marks rise on her palm. Four crescent moons, shining like blood on a snowy field. She relaxed her arms, and let them fall to her side. She tucked her hands into her pockets. Jeans were a good idea after all. She looked up at the door, white plastic, hard, but not so much it hurt to knock. Not so much they couldn’t hear, shouldn’t hear. She refused to knock again. She blinked, her eyes catching light to the side, turned on from inside the house, pouring through the windows. Her eyes twitched, her body shivered, her foot shifted. She could hear footsteps now: light, soft, careful. Not the man then. She heard a key scrape the lock, a click as it released, a clunk as the handle was pulled down and a whisper as the door opened. She looked into a face she had scene countless times before, eyes that had watched her grow, hair she herself used to play with. With a voice as worn out as her body felt, as strained as the last few steps had her feeling, as cold as the emotions within, she spoke.

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“Hello mother.”