Jenny comes out of her front door in a kaftan, looking breezy and comfortable. My mom told her I’d be coming, so it isn’t an unpleasant trauma surprise party.

When she sees me, her face breaks into a comforting smile and I realize that I have really, really missed her.

I walk right up to her and hug her. Having had my arms around Aimee only a few days ago, I’m vividly aware of the undeniable similarities between them. I squeeze her once, hard, and then let go.

“Come on in, ladies,” she says, not immediately putting a spotlight on how long it’s been since I was here and under what circumstances I left.

She’s not attaching importance to every second in the way I feared, and I relax as I walk inside.

The house, of course, has the same bones that it did when I last saw it. The counter in the kitchen that leads to the small dining room. The living room that takes a step to get down into. But things are different too.

I guess I’d expected … well, a time capsule. The same busy bulletin board with Post-it notes, an out-of-date calendar, and an irrelevant business card for Aimee’s old orthodontist. I’d been expecting the place to match exactly with my memories, like two negatives held up one behind the other.

But it’s not the same. I realize now that most of the furniture Jenny and Joe had back then was probably inherited or thrifted. They didn’t have a lot of money, and they were fairly young parents, which is the kind of thing kids don’t notice. Most people in their twenties and thirties, despite what the internet wants us to believe, are living in houses built out of the things they can find that work. They’re not usually curating space, like influencers want us to think they are.

Now, it’s a clean, mid-century style and it’s perfect for them.

The windows have been replaced with new ones, which probably make the bills lower and the house quieter. I remember being told to quiet down constantly when we were out back and they were trying to watch The Bachelor or whatever inside. I have a brief fantasy of being here together, grown, with our moms, and having wine, sitting outside the thick new windows.

The dining room table is clean and white, instead of the oak one where I used to sit and eat spaghetti. The couch is pale yellow with spindly, angled legs instead of the big, overstuffed one they used to have. The kitchen has new, updated appliances. The wood paneling is bright, painted clean white.

Jenny clearly kept living. Kept growing. Kept evolving. She didn’t freeze in time. I think I feared that everyone here had. That no one else had the ability to change but me, so coming home would be a frightening step into the past.