We step inside the all-too-familiar home and are greeted with the smell of garlic, rosemary, and a hint of pine. I turn to see a magnificent, fresh tree in the sitting room to our left, decorated in golds and reds and priceless, homemade ornaments.

Most of the time, I don’t even know what day it is, let alone the fact that it’s almost Christmas.

“Oh, Dean.”

My head snaps up to find Bridget and Derek Lawson rushing towards me from the kitchen. Bridget’s long, brown skirt trails behind her as tears well in green eyes that bear a striking resemblance to Cora’s. Her blonde hair is cropped into a pixie cut, her crow’s feet creasing as she casts her worry and love all over me.

Derek is behind her, his salt-and-pepper hair telling his age despite his youthful appearance. He has Mandy’s eyes—hazel, more slanted, adorned with thick, brown lashes.

They are my second parents. My own father passed away almost twelve years ago from a heart attack, and my mother is in the dementia ward at Sunrise Assisted Living. I spent most of my high school afternoons here, studying with Mandy, playing board games, laughing our way through karaoke nights, and eating home-cooked meals. Bridget and Cora loved cooking together. Their meatloaf was one of my favorites.

Bridget places her kind hands against my cheeks, cradling my face like I’m her very own son.

I should have been five days ago. December 5th was supposed to be our wedding day—instead, I spent thirteen hours buried beneath my bed covers, ignoring Mandy’s phone calls and only getting up to take a piss and munch on stale, saltine crackers.

“You look better,” Bridget says, her watery smile impressively veiling the obvious lie.

The Lawsons visited me at the hospital in those strange, hazy forty-eight hours post-rescue, but I haven’t seen them since. I haven’t seen anyone except for Mandy, who stops by my townhouse unannounced more than I’d like her to. She has a key, though, so there’s not much I can do about it.

I’ll never tell her I thought about stealing that key and flushing it down the toilet.

“I feel a little better. Still adjusting.” I go with the lying theme. It feels simpler. “Thanks for having us over tonight.”

“Mom, give him some space. He’s not an exhibit,” Mandy scolds, pulling her snowy white hat with a furry pom-pom off her head, sending her hair into a static-infused mess.

Bridget reluctantly steps away and Derek paces over to me, squeezing my shoulder with a firm, affectionate hand. “It’s great to see you up and about. The girls made meatloaf—your favorite.”

The girls?

I hear the patio door slide open from the back of the house, squeaky and familiar, followed by the sound of exuberant paws skidding across the hardwood floors.

Blizzard must sense my presence because she careens towards me in the entryway, all sixty-five pounds of her, and promptly lands on my feet, rolling over for a tummy rub. I crouch down to scratch her belly, releasing my first genuine smile in weeks. Blizzard’s tail wags furiously beneath her. I can’t believe this old girl still has so much energy—she’s got to be twelve or thirteen by now. But her excitement at seeing me walk through that front door has never wavered over the last ten years. Not even a little.