Balancing my carry-on suitcase in one hand while gripping Sofia’s child leash in the other was already testing my limits.

We made our slow, chaotic way through the bustling airport, and I did my best to ignore the odd looks thrown our way, mostly because of how Sofia seemed more like a wild animal being dragged than a toddler. Her shrill cries only amplified the attention we attracted.

Had this been me as a kid, my mom would have been glaring daggers, probably ready to throw the luggage cart at me. But baby sister syndrome meant Sofia was immune to such discipline, getting away with pretty much everything.

My eyes flicked to the luggage trolley my mom was pushing and then back at Sofia, who was squirming fiercely on the other end of the leash.

As if she could hear the silent threat in my gaze, Mom shot me a warning look. “Don’t even think about it,” she said sharply.

I sighed, pressing my fingers to my temples in silent surrender.

Attempting to quiet Sofia only made her screams escalate, piercing through the terminal’s ambient noise. I muttered a string of curse words under my breath, frustrated enough to wish I could send her screaming all the way back to London.

Enough was enough.

Quickening my pace, I tugged harder on the leash. Sofia stumbled backward, landing hard on her bottom as I pulled ahead. The shock stunned her into silence for a brief moment before the wails erupted again. Instead of yelling, I drowned out the noise with my own steady breathing — something I’d mastered over years of managing her outbursts.

How I longed for the days when I was an only child.

Exhausted from a nine-hour flight with barely any sleep, my mind wobbled on the edge of delirium. The fact that I suffered from terrible motion sickness and an irrational fear of flying didn’t help my misery. All I wanted was a hot shower and to collapse into endless sleep.

Right when I felt like I might lose it entirely, a familiar voice broke through the chaos, loud and piercing in Spanish.

“¡Miija, miija! ¡Por aquí!”

An elderly woman pushed through the milling crowd, waving her arms frantically and smiling broadly, her voice filled with unmistakable warmth and urgency.

I dropped my suitcase without hesitation and unclipped Sofia’s leash, rushing into my grandmother’s open arms.

Her embrace was strong and steady, and I melted into the familiar scent of jasmine and rose that always clung to her.

“Mi amor,” she breathed, pulling back to look at me with tears glimmering in her eyes, “you’ve grown so much!”

My heart swelled. It had been too long since I’d last seen Abuela, and I’d missed her fiercely.

She was the anchor of my childhood—the woman who had practically raised me after my grandfather passed away just days after I was born. While my parents worked long hours to keep the family afloat, Abuela filled my days with warmth and love.

We did everything together: baking fragrant pan dulce, knitting cozy blankets, and watching telenovelas late into the night. Her resilience was extraordinary; she never let grief dull her bright spirit, honoring my abuelo’s memory by sharing endless stories of their deep, enduring love.

Those stories shaped me, just as her smile shaped my sense of home.

Years ago, when my dad took a job in London, convincing Abuela to come along was almost impossible. She had her roots here—neighbors, friends, and that sweet old man who lived across the street, whom she adored.

Ultimately, though, we left her behind in the States while our family adjusted to new beginnings abroad: my mom fresh out of a divorce, me craving a fresh start, and baby Sofia barely out of the womb.

Now, six years later, we were back in our small Ohio town, each of us carrying scars and hopes in equal measure.

Was I happy to return? Mostly yes. Deep down, I’d never wanted to move to London in the first place. This town was where my roots tangled deeply—the place where I grew up, where my best friends Mia and Grace still lived, and where Abuela’s comforting presence awaited.

Besides, facing the cramped two-bedroom flat my dad shared with his twenty-something roommate in London was no contest. I’d take the familiar streets of Ohio any day.

I’d just finished secondary school, my exams behind me, and my connections abroad were sparse and shallow at best.

So, what did I stand to lose?

There was, however, one thorn in the side of my return—one that twisted my stomach every time I thought about it.

Lucas.

My childhood neighbor, once a relentless teaser whose careless words had chipped away at my confidence, leaving me tangled in a web of insecurities and mental battles. The boy I had once secretly admired but now harbored a complicated mixture of resentment, vulnerability, and something I wasn’t ready to name.

I forced the painful thoughts aside, turning my attention back to Abuela as she gathered Sofia, who was attempting another escape, into her arms. Mom dabbed away silent tears, overwhelmed by the flood of memories and emotions.

Sofia squirmed and protested but soon relented, nestling into Abuela’s tender embrace like everyone else before her.

“Come on, let’s get you home,” my grandmother said softly, draping her free arm affectionately over my shoulders.

Home.

The word alone brought a fragile smile to my face.

The car ride back was laden with quiet anticipation. My nerves fizzed beneath the surface as familiar streets rolled past the windows—streets I hadn’t seen in six long years.

When we finally pulled into the driveway, my heart caught as I looked up at the house where I’d spent so much of my childhood. It looked exactly the same, save for a new porch swing gently swinging in the breeze.

I stepped out, a goofy grin stretching across my face as I grabbed our suitcases from the trunk.

“While you were gone, I redecorated your room,” Abuela announced cheerfully once we finished bringing everything inside.

I raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “Oh? How so?”

She led me toward the staircase, hanging her handbag and scarf on the banister. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing too wild. Just a little more grown-up, I thought,” she said with a wink.

As I followed her upstairs, the warmth of the house wrapped around me—the soft hum of memories, the scent of fresh paint mixed with lingering spices from the kitchen below. It felt like a fresh chapter waiting to be written, filled with uncertainty but also the possibility of healing and rediscovery.

For the first time in a long while, the idea of being home didn’t feel heavy with dread; instead, it whispered of hope.