Her parents’ house was just as she’d left it four years ago, quiet and imposing. Sol struggled to open the door in the rain, eventually realizing the lock had been changed. She huffed, her breath making the hood of her poncho flap up, dampening her hair. She huffed again. The old lock had always been unreliable, jamming every other day, but not being told of the change felt personal. She pressed the doorbell lightly, suddenly hoping no one was home.

Sol’s mother appeared, opening the door slowly. Neither of them spoke, long past the stage of veiling their mutual contempt. Sol stared blankly at her mother’s half-finished makeup and curlers. She was headed to church. “I thought we would be seeing you soon,” her mother finally said, her voice flat.

Sol stepped past her, a perfunctory “Hi, Ma” begrudgingly slipping past clenched teeth. “Where’s Pa?” she asked, surveying the foyer.

“He’s out back. He made plans to grill without checking the forecast, but I want my grilled steak, so I’m getting my grilled steak.” She smiled. Sol ignored it, proceeding to the back patio through the kitchen.

A streak of lightning kept her inside. Instinctively, Sol planted herself in the corner of the kitchen, away from the back door. She removed her soaked poncho and scanned the room. Everything was the same: ragged towels hung sloppily from the refrigerator handle, a loaf of Sara Lee bread sat cozily on top of the microwave, sparkling marble counters. The familiarity was slightly sickening.

Sol’s dad burst into the kitchen, the door swinging open and hitting the doorstop on the adjacent wall. Sol had installed the stop after years of her mom pestering her dad about making such rambunctious entrances. It was her first home renovation. Neither of her parents had ever mentioned it.

“The prodigal daughter!” he exclaimed, depositing a tray of steaming steaks onto the counter and approaching Sol with open arms. The steaks smelled delicious, charcoal dashed with smoky rosemary. His police uniform was soaked, but he seemed to be in high spirits.

Sol evaded the attempted hug, placing her hands on his shoulders and locking her elbows, keeping him at arm’s length. He should have known better.

As usual, he ignored the obvious distance between them, smiling generously and speaking with casual intimacy. “I am pretty wet, aren’t I? So, you’re doing pretty all right, I hear?”

“You heard? From who?” Sol said, striding to the other side of the kitchen in one long step.

“Derrick said he saw you last month, said you fixed up Nana’s house all nice.”

“Is that all he said?”

“Not quite. He also said you own the house now.”

“Yep.”

“That’s a lot of responsibility.”

“Sure.”

“It is,” her mother seconded, stepping into the kitchen draped in a purple Murphy robe, two crosses emblazoned on the sleeves. The curlers were gone, their job finished.

“Revival Week?” Sol asked.