the last time i was home

“i hate the person that messed up the last time i was home— and some nights, i wonder if that person was me. the taxi dropped me off at the gate that still creaked like an old throat clearing its pain. the house looked smaller somehow, like it had shrunk from holding too many things unsaid. the paint had peeled in places we once traced with our fingers, and the wind carried familiar smells— spice, dust, and something like regret. ma’s plants by the window had wilted, or maybe they just bowed at my return. the porch light flickered like it forgot whether it was supposed to welcome me. inside, the air was thick with yesterday’s dust and last year’s silence. my footsteps echoed like strangers walking in someone else’s story. even the walls seemed to pause, like they weren’t sure how to hold me anymore. you didn’t hug me. you stood there, arms crossed like fences, eyes like locked doors, and i smiled anyway— that stupid kind that hopes time healed more than it did. we sat at the table with a hundred unsaid things sitting between the plates. you asked about work. i asked about dad. you said he doesn’t talk much anymore, and i said, “yeah, me neither.” we both laughed, but it wasn’t a laugh meant for joy. it was the kind that escapes when sorrow forgets to stay silent. then came the night that turned everything— when you pulled out the photo album like a loaded gun. flipped pages with fury, paused on faces i forgot how to name. “you forgot where you came from,” you said, and i said nothing because the truth was, i was trying to. you called me selfish. i called you a ghost. you said i only show up when i need something. i said, “no— sometimes i just miss home,” but even i didn’t believe it. the argument wasn’t loud, but it cut clean— like words sharpened on too many lonely nights. you said i left. i said you made it easy. and just like that, we both stopped speaking, as if silence was the only language we ever truly shared. i left the next morning without saying goodbye. the door didn’t slam— it sighed. the sky was grey, like even the weather was too tired to feel. i hate the person that messed up the last time i was home. but hate is funny like that— it clings to the mirror when you’re not looking. i see them now in the way i flinch at family calls, in the way i lie and say “i’m busy,” in the way i pretend holidays are just another day. i see them in half-written texts, unsent apologies, and the way i scroll past photos because they feel too loud. i hate them— because they should’ve tried harder. they should’ve forgiven faster. they should’ve stayed longer. they should’ve— been better. been softer. been… me. and maybe next time, if there ever is one, i won’t arrive with armor on my shoulders. i’ll bring patience instead of pride, presence instead of penance. maybe next time, i’ll remember that home isn’t a place you return to unchanged— it’s a wound you choose to tend instead of hide. but for now, i live with this version of myself— the one who messed up the last time i was home, and hasn’t yet found the way back.”