2. Michael

I always knew the only thing that would bring me home was death. I just didn't know whose it would be. I've been gone seven years, and today I got the call. Mom's dying. You should come home. So, I hopped on the first flight leaving San Jose to Wisconsin because when death calls, you answer.

The engine of my rental car purrs quietly as I speed along Highway X, one of only two roads that connect Allen's Grove to the rest of the world. A colorful rainbow appears in the sky, but judging from the dark clouds moving in from the west, it won't last long. I slow down and flick my left blinker on. There are no cars on the road to signal to, but I do it anyway, out of habit. The Grove still looks the same as I figured it would. Small towns don't evolve. They don't grow. They don't change. They are what they've always been.

I drive past the park, which sits in the center of the unincorporated community. Large walnut and box elder trees are scattered throughout it. They're the only things that grow here. The same slide, swing set, and picnic tables are there—just rusted and more worn now. Ranch-style houses with decent-sized yards surround the park, and I'm sure the same bloodlines still live in each one.

I make a right on Hustis Street. It's a dead end, but the last house on the left is where I grew up. I've thought about how our street goes nowhere, almost like foreshadowing for the people who stuck around. I didn't want to come back, but I can't trust my sisters to handle the estate properly. They have a plethora of their own unresolved problems—Nikki, an addiction to drugs, Beth, an addiction to mediocrity. How could I expect them to take care of this?

I feel no ill will toward my sisters, but I know they resent me. I outgrew them. I got out. I discovered a world outside of this terrarium, and they hate me for it. But I also don't blame them for their envy. When you shine brighter than the sun, it's hard for others to look at you, so you have two choices: look and be blinded with resentment or look away. It's obvious they chose the latter. They've had little to no contact with me for the past seven years. I guess if I were in their shoes, I'd act the same way. I'm a reminder of what life could have been like if things had happened differently for them. No one wants that kind of reminder.

I take the long concrete driveway slow. It curves at the top, cutting through a sprawling yard that used to serve as a cow pasture in another lifetime. The house sits at the end of the driveway, on top of the tallest hill in Allen's Grove. I used to think that our location was special but it's not. It's like saying I'm the most successful of anyone that's ever lived in this town. A giant to ants. I park the car in front of the three-car garage. The siding on the large ranch-style home is a light blue, but it's not as bright and clean as it used to be when my father cared for it. Every spring, he'd pressure-wash the driveway, porch, back deck, and siding. This home was his source of pride, but eventually pride destroyed him like it does most men.

I grab a duffel bag from the back seat and get out of the vehicle. I don't plan to stay very long, just long enough. A sweet, pungent scent hangs in the air, most likely from the rainfall and the impending storm. The wind whistles as it picks up speed. Birds chirp and sing from trees scattered around the land. At the front door, I notice the red paint is chipped and faded, another thing that hasn't been taken care of, and a reminder of why I'm here. I consider knocking, and maybe I should. I don't think of this place as home. But it also doesn't seem right to announce my presence, as though I'm a guest. My hand grasps the cold door handle, and I let out a deep breath, readying myself to enter a world I never wanted to return to.