Christmas Week: Returning Home

The sky over your hometown is flat and grey, the kind of December light that makes everything look like it has been dropped in dishwater. The cul-de-sac where your family lives is already dotted with candy canes staked into lawns and sagging strings of lights. Your parents’ house looks the same as always: warm bulbs tracing the roofline, a faded wreath on the door, and the crooked coat rack still visible through the hallway window.

The moment you step inside, the smell of home closes around you — pine from the Christmas tree, cinnamon from a candle, something hearty simmering in the kitchen. Not a holiday feast, but a welcome home repast.

“Son!” your mother says, embracing you before you can even drop your bag. Her hug presses the cold out of your coat. She pulls back to scan you up and down as though finals week might have shaved off inches. Her sweater carries the faint scent of laundry soap and shampoo, and a small enamel pin on her collar shows the purple ribbon she always wears in support of the domestic **** shelter she runs.

From the kitchen, your dad calls, “Look who’s finally here! Dinner in ten, son, so don’t vanish upstairs.”

Your sister, Maddy, leans out of her room with a grin. “Welcome home, bro. Don’t spill anything on the tablecloth this year. Beige shows everything.”

“It’s oatmeal,” your mom corrects automatically.

“Still beige,” Maddy fires back before ducking away.

You carry your bag to your old room. It’s still arranged like an exhibit of who you were before college: the crooked bookshelf, the outdated bedspread, the hairline crack in the ceiling that runs from the fan to the window. You left it like this just a few months ago and already it feels like you've changed beyond compare. You leave your phone on the nightstand face-down after sending a quick message to Rebekah, telling her you love her and wishing her a good Christmas at home.

When you come back down, the table is set. Roast chicken, potatoes, vegetables glistening with oil and salt — solid food without ceremony. You slide into your chair across from Maddy, who smirks at you like she has a full week of practical jokes stored up.

Your dad raises his glass of water. “Good to have you home, son. And congratulations.”

You blink. “On my finals? Yeah, I did pretty well I think. I could have got another A maybe, but 2 was good along with the Bs.”

He exchanges a look with your mom. She nods once, the kind of permission that makes it clear this was a discussion they had before you ever got home.

“No, on how you’ve been doing in the game,” your dad says. “You’ve handled yourself well. Top of the board and you've outlived 3 rivals already.”

The fork stills in your hand. “How could you possibly know about that? We’re not supposed to talk about—” You stop yourself. The first rule is you don’t talk about it outside of people who’ve been in. Everyone knows that, and it seems like they stick to it. Which can only mean one thing.

Your mother sets her napkin down and folds her hands. “That’s exactly why we haven’t said anything before. You’re right — you don’t speak of it with outsiders. But we’re not outsiders, son. We couldn’t tell you until you were already in.”

You stare at her, then at your dad, trying to put the pieces together while trying to deny what the finished puzzle looked like. “What are you saying?”

Your dad clears his throat. “You weren’t chosen at random. You’re a legacy. Twenty years ago, I was a player. Your mom was a card. That’s how we met.”

Your mouth goes dry. “What? You—what? That’s—”

“Gross,” Maddy supplies cheerfully, stabbing her fork into a potato.

You turn to her in disbelief. “Wait. You knew? You knew all this time?”

She smirks. “Yeah, bro, you think you were selected just because? Come on. Legacy. I recommended you. That’s how this works.”

The back of your neck prickles. “You did WHAT? You were in it too?”

She shrugs, trying for casual. “Only for a little while. Sophomore year. Didn’t make it past the first round. I figured I’d rather hang out in libraries and judge people’s book choices. But yeah. I was in.”

Your fork clatters against your plate. “What the fuck, Maddy? Nobody thought to mention this? Not once?”

“Can’t,” your dad says firmly. “Not until you’re in. You know that now. The rule protects the game. You had to find out from the inside first.”

You sink back in your chair, dizzy with the weight of it. Your dad a player. Your mom a card. Your sister in it once too. And you, sitting here, suddenly not random at all. And just how many women have been in the game as players? Cassie, twice. Kailani, almost. Your sister, once? Another assumption about gender roles starts to slip. Women might be the minority of players, but it wasn't like they never got into it too.

“I was worried,” you admit, after a pause, “that Mom would find out and hate me for it. Because of the shelter.”

Your mother’s expression softens, but her voice stays steady. “I don’t hate you, son. I fight against people who strip choice away, who override consent until a person doesn’t remember what no means. That’s domestic ****. That’s why I run the shelter. The game is not that. It may be messy, it may be reckless and even dumb sometimes, but it has rules that protect choice. Remember how Zeke got bounced? Last I heard he's still bouncing. Look if you honor yours and others’ consent, you’re not the problem. You’re just doing the complicated, human business of being young and learning what you want.”

The knot in your stomach loosens a little, though your brain is still spinning. You nod, not sure what else to do.

Maddy grins at you over her glass. “Guess you’re not special, bro. Just part of the franchise.”

Your dad chuckles. Your mom reaches across and squeezes your hand. “Protect your heart first, son,” she says. “Then protect others’. That’s what matters.”

Dinner drifts back into familiar rhythms after that, but your mind doesn’t. Upstairs, staring at the old crack in the ceiling, you keep turning it over. Legacy. Family. Consent. The rules. And the sudden realization that this game has had its hooks in your life longer than you ever knew.

Sleep takes a long time to come, and when it does, it brings the sense that things are never going to be simple again.