The flight was smooth.
I hate smooth. It gives you too much time to think.
Spokane came into view through a layer of low winter cloud. Flat. Gray. Frozen in the way cities get when they stop pretending to be impressive.
It looked exactly like it always has.
Which is to say: small.
Dad was waiting near baggage claim, hands in his coat pockets, rocking slightly on his heels like he didn’t want to seem too eager.
He smiled when he saw me.
Inventory complete.
He hugged me.
Checking for damage.
“It’s good to see you, Taylor.”
There was no hesitation in it. No stumble. No almost-Tag.
Taylor.
Spoken cleanly. Practiced.
“It’s good to see you too,” I said.
We’re already acting.
The drive home was quiet. Snow pushed into gray ridges along the side of the road. The same strip mall. The same water tower by the high school. The same grocery store that never quite updates its signage.
He didn’t ask about Seattle.
He didn’t ask about school.
He didn’t ask about the name.
Not yet.
“It means a lot that you came,” he said finally, eyes still on the road.
It means we weren’t sure you would.
“I know,” I replied.
I calculated the optics.
The house looked exactly the same. Porch light on. Wreath centered. Predictable.
Mom opened the door before we reached it.
She didn’t rush forward.
She paused.
Looked.
Evaluated.
Then she smiled.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
Taylor.
She stepped aside to let me in, brushing a hand lightly over my sleeve like she was confirming texture.
Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!
“It’s been too long.”
You stayed away on purpose.
“It has,” I said.
It was necessary.
Her eyes moved to my hair. No frown. Just assessment.
“It’s gotten shorter.”
“Yes.”
It was deliberate.
She nodded slowly.
“Well,” she said gently, “it grows.”
We can fix it.
Dad carried my suitcase upstairs.
“Your room’s ready,” he said.
Preserved.
The hallway creaked in the same places. My bedroom door stuck slightly before giving way.
My room was tidy. Neutral. Sanitized.
The posters were gone. The old bulletin board was empty. The comforter had been replaced with something beige and forgettable.
“We thought you might want it simpler,” Mom said from behind me.
We erased what made you loud.
“It’s nice,” I said.
It’s sterile.
Dinner was quiet and efficient. Updates about funeral logistics delivered like a board meeting.
“Friday at eleven,” Dad said. “The church.”
The church.
“We’ve spoken with Bishop Carter,” Mom added. “He sends his condolences.”
He sends supervision.
“I’m sure he does,” I said.
Smile. Neutral tone. Don’t sharpen it.
Mom folded her hands gently on the table.
“We’re just asking for this week to be simple,” she said.
Contained.
“I don’t want to make anything harder,” I replied.
I don’t want to hand you a reason.
Dad nodded.
“That’s all we need.”
Compliance.
Later, upstairs, Mom knocked lightly on my door.
“Can we talk for a minute?”
Translation: correction incoming.
“Of course.”
Let’s perform.
She stepped inside and closed the door softly behind her.
“I know things have been… confusing lately,” she began carefully.
You mean inconvenient.
“And I don’t want to make this about anything except your grandmother.”
You absolutely want to make it about something else.
“I understand,” I said.
I understand leverage.
She hesitated before continuing.
“She wouldn’t have understood all of… this.”
She would have tried.
“And this week isn’t the time to challenge anyone,” she added gently. “It’s about respect.”
Respect means conformity.
“I’m not here to challenge anyone,” I said.
I’m here because death makes refusal ugly.
Dad appeared in the hallway behind her, like he’d been listening without appearing to.
“Let’s keep it simple,” he said mildly.
Let’s keep you manageable.
“I’m not trying to complicate things,” I replied.
I am trying to exist.
Mom glanced again at my hair.
“Blonde was always so pretty on you,” she said lightly.
There it is.
Not a demand.
An observation.
Correction disguised as nostalgia.
“I remember,” I said.
You do too.
Silence settled between us.
Polite.
Tight.
After a moment, Mom left and returned carrying something folded over her arm.
“I found this,” she said.
It was a black dress. Knee-length. Long sleeves. Structured. Conservative.
“I kept it from senior year,” she added. “It still fits.”
You still fit.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
“I was thinking maybe I could wear something else,” I said evenly.
Measure your tone.
“Like what?” she asked gently.
“A black suit. Or dress pants. Something simple.”
Something mine.
She didn’t frown.
“It’s your grandmother’s funeral,” she said softly. “This feels appropriate.”
Appropriate means recognizable.
“I understand,” I said. “I just thought—”
Dad stepped fully into the doorway now.
“It’s one day,” he said calmly. “Let’s not overthink it.”
It’s never one day.
“I’m not overthinking,” I said.
I’m negotiating existence.
Mom placed the dress on the bed.
“We’re not asking for anything dramatic,” she said. “Just something respectful.”
Just something compliant.
Silence again.
The dress lay between us like a test.
“I don’t want to make this harder,” I said.
I don’t want to give you the satisfaction of a fight.
Mom’s shoulders relaxed slightly.
“That’s all we’re asking.”
Submission acknowledged.
They left the room together.
The door clicked shut.
I stared at the dress for a long time.
Black. Conservative. Safe.
A costume.
Uniform.
I caught my reflection in the mirror across the room. Dark hair. Shorter than they like. Sharper than they remember.
I’m going to have to play this carefully.
You’re going to have to play Taylor.
They don’t want Tag at the funeral.
They want Taylor Agnes Keene.
Original casting.
I picked up the dress and held it up in front of the mirror.
It fit.
Of course it did.
It always fit.
I’ll wear the dress.
For now.
