Three weeks later, I decided to drop by unannounced with a bottle of sparkling cider and a fresh peach cobbler to see how they were settling in. However, the moment I stepped through the front door, the peaceful atmosphere I had built was replaced by the heavy scent of expensive cologne and cheap gin.
Loud indie rock was blaring from the speakers, and the entryway was cluttered with stylish coats that certainly didn’t belong to my parents. I stood frozen as I watched strangers wandering through the living room with an air of entitlement that made my skin crawl.
I found my mother tucked away on a small stool in a shadowed corner of the room, wearing that pained, polite smile she used when she felt like a burden. My father was leaning against the hallway wall holding a soggy paper plate, looking like an unwanted guest at his own dinner party.
“Dad, what is going on here?” I asked, my voice tight with rising anger.
He jumped slightly, nearly dropping his plate, and looked at me with an expression that was more guilty than surprised.
“Bridget, we weren’t expecting you today,” he said, avoiding my eyes while gesturing vaguely at the crowded room. “They needed the main table for the snacks.”