Selene POV
The next morning, I stood in front of a familiar iron gate I hadn't walked through in years. Antonio's car waited a few feet behind me, engine quiet, giving me space. The house hadn't changed much—same vine-covered balcony, same wooden chimes that hung like sleepy ghosts in the wind.
I hadn't been here since I was seventeen.
Ayra walked beside me, her steps a little slower now. Maybe she was nervous too. The last time we'd all been under one roof, there were tears, raised voices, and slammed doors. But today, she said, "Let's not carry yesterday's baggage into today's room." So we didn't.
We walked in together.
Aunt Melinda stood at the edge of the living room, her eyes going wide the moment she saw me. Her silver-streaked hair was pulled back neatly, but her hands trembled as she put down the teacup.
For a breath, none of us spoke.
Then she whispered, "Selene?"
I gave a nervous nod. "Hi… Aunt Mel."
And she moved faster than I expected—arms wrapping around me tightly, pressing me into the scent of rose soap and distant memories. I froze for a moment, then hugged her back, clutching harder than I meant to.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I never should have stayed silent. You were just a girl caught between women too proud to talk."
Tears spilled, but I smiled. "We all made mistakes. But we're here now."
She pulled back, brushing her eyes with the corner of her shawl, then turned to Ayra. "You brought her back."
Ayra grinned. "Antonio helped."
At his name, my heart fluttered a little.
We all sat around the old dining table that had once held birthday cakes and coloring books. Aunt Melinda poured tea. We talked—awkward at first, then flowing like music remembered. We cleared myths. Rewrote assumptions. She told me how much she'd missed me, how my mother still sent her Christmas cards she never had the courage to respond to.
"I was waiting for a sign," Aunt Mel said quietly. "Turns out, my sign had brown eyes and a sharp sense of fashion."
We laughed at that.
Before I left, she placed a warm hand over mine. "Tell your mother I'd love to talk. No pressure. Just… maybe it's time."
I nodded, unsure if I could speak. My throat was tight. Antonio appeared at the door just then, like he'd been summoned by fate, holding out my scarf with a smile. I ran to him and wrapped my arms around his waist.
We were patching up the old. And somehow, it made everything new.
The wind had a certain softness to it as we drove back. Antonio's hand rested gently over mine between the gear shifts, his thumb drawing slow, silent circles. I stared out the window, watching the old streets blur past, still caught in the warmth of Aunt Melinda's unexpected embrace. But as our neighborhood neared, that warmth began to mix with something heavier.
My parents.
I hadn't told them I was going to see Aunt Mel. I hadn't told them Ayra was back either. Part of me had been afraid. Of stirring old waters. Of awakening sleeping guilt.
Antonio parked across the street from our home. "You okay?" he asked, studying me like a fragile note.
I nodded. "I just… I don't know how they'll react."
He squeezed my hand once. "Then let them react. You're not alone anymore."
I took a deep breath and stepped out.
Inside, the smell of simmering cardamom tea and incense greeted me—nostalgic, grounding. My mother was in the kitchen. My father in the small study, reading the day's paper. Normalcy.
"Mom? Dad?" I called, unsure why my voice cracked.
They both looked up. My mom's eyes widened first. "Tash, Ayra?"
My mom hugged Ayra.Tears fell of their eyes.
Then,
My father put his paper down slowly, lips tightening. "You were out early. Everything okay?"
"I went to see Aunt Melinda," I said quickly. "Ayra's here. We talked. A lot of things were said… and fixed."
The silence that followed was louder than any storm. My mom stepped forward, wiping her hands on her apron, her eyes glossy.
"You… went to Mel?"
I nodded.
"Without telling us?"
"I needed to do this for myself. To know if the stories I carried all these years were even true."
My dad stood now, hands on his hips. "And what did you find out?"
"That there was pain. Misunderstandings. But also a lot of love—love that no one had the courage to express."
For a moment, I thought he would dismiss it. That familiar stubbornness etched in his brow threatened to harden. But then something shifted. His shoulders fell. "She was my sister long before all this drama. It hurt… what happened. But it hurt more losing you in it."
My heart squeezed.
"She wants to talk to you," I said softly. "No pressure. Just… maybe it's time."
He looked away for a second, clearing his throat. "Your mother sent her a Christmas card every year. Never got one back."
"She read every single one," I whispered.
That did it.
My mom blinked, then covered her mouth with a trembling hand. "Maybe we can meet. Just tea. No arguments."
"Tea's a good place to start," I said, smiling despite the tears burning my eyes.
Antonio stepped inside quietly then, and my dad looked at him.
"Were you behind this?" he asked, arms crossing.
Antonio smiled—steady, respectful. "Only a little. The rest was all her."
My dad's gaze lingered a moment, then he nodded. "Thank you… for bringing her back."
We stayed in the living room for hours—laughing, crying, rewriting family history with warmth and honesty. And when I walked out with Antonio later that evening, the stars above felt closer, like blessings overhead.
As we drove off toward the city lights, I leaned against him, eyes fluttering closed.
"Home," I whispered, "finally feels like home again."