I duck my head out of the shower, careful to dry my hands off before I check.

Mom’s sent me the address for the pictures, and when I read it on the screen, a sense of dread crawls up my spine.

And I can’t help myself.

“Son of a bitch.”

*  *  *

“So … this is where you grew up?” Wyatt asks as we stand at the gate to the driveway.

I asked the Uber driver to drop us off here. It’s a walk up to the house proper, and the more distance I get to put between myself and walking back into that house, the better.

“Yeah.”

“Where’s the actual house?”

“Up the hill a little bit. It’s not far.”

“And why do I get the feeling that you don’t want to go back in there?”

I glance at him. “And where would you have gotten an idea like that?” I ask him sarcastically. It’s not that I don’t want to go back in there, it’s just …

No, actually, I don’t want to go back in there. The last time I was here was over Christmas break, and I couldn’t wait to leave. I tried to spend every free moment I could away from this house and the people inside, even if that meant just taking walks up and down the street. There were times when I couldn’t be inside, no matter how much I tried. Too many weird feelings, too many memories that I’d rather not have.

“You know, we don’t have to go inside.”

“We kind of do,” I say. I’d rather not be chewed out by Mother. I ring the bell on the callbox by the gate, and a second later, it crackles to life.

“Hello?”

“We’re here, Mother.”

She doesn’t say another word. The gate just buzzes and slowly begins to open up.

Next to the driveway, there’s a set of stairs built into the landscaping that makes the journey up the elevated property much easier, and much shorter. So of course I lead Wyatt up the driveway instead. No reason to get to the front door faster than necessary.

“How much of your family will be here?” Wyatt asks as we make our way up, passing by the lush green ferns and flower beds that Mother worked so ridiculously hard on. I’ll give her this at least: When the house was first purchased, she had all the previous landscaping uprooted and moved. She wanted her own garden, grown herself, something she could be proud of.

“Us, Mother, Michael and Ashley, the bride’s and groom’s parties, grandparents,” I say. “Think of it this way: The fewer people who are there, the more attention there is to put on us.”