Saturday Homecoming

Saturday morning brought a restless energy Amara couldn't shake. She was still in Marisol’s guest room, sitting cross-legged on the unfamiliar sheets, her laptop open but untouched. She hadn’t slept at home—not after how casually her mother had dismissed her absence. Amara had texted late: Staying at Marisol’s. Simone’s reply? A single thumbs-up emoji. No question, no concern.

Her daughter hadn’t come home, and Simone didn’t even blink. One night of Garrett being there and suddenly Amara no longer mattered.

That silence burned more than any fight ever could.

Her phone buzzed beside her.

Lexi: Everything okay over there? You’ve been quiet. Just checking in. Not trying to be that girlfriend, just… idk. Your mom’s house vibes weird sometimes. And please don’t say it’s a ‘projection of internalized whiteness’ again, lol.

Amara typed quickly, All good. Just prepping for Mom’s party tomorrow. Will call later. Then, almost despite herself, she smiled. Lexi always worried—but never pushed. And lately, Lexi had become so easy to read, so quick to yield. Amara grinned to herself. Her sweet little woke submissive couldn’t help it. If she could guide her, how hard could it be to get rid of Garrett?

Amara stepped out of the guest room, still barefoot, and wandered down the hall toward the living room. Marisol stood at the window, framed by late morning light, her arms folded as she stared silently across the neighborhood.

"You can see your house from here," she said without turning around.

Amara joined her, looking out. There it was—her home. Too still. Too clean. Like nothing had changed. Like everything inside hadn’t been shifting since he arrived.

Marisol sipped from her cup, voice low. “He’s still there?”

“Yeah,” Amara muttered. “Like he owns the place.”

They sat, tension rolling between them.

From a distance, their plotting might’ve looked strategic—calculated, righteous. But in truth, they hated Garrett for simpler reasons: he was too close to Simone. Too smooth. Too comfortable. He hadn’t earned his place, and yet there he was, acting like a fixture.

“He walks around like he’s her husband or something,” Marisol muttered.

Amara scoffed. “Worse. He acts like he belongs to all of us. Like he’s our Dad.”

They sat for a while in silence. Marisol eventually broke it. “So. Are we burning him down at the party or just humiliating him?”

Amara smirked. “Burning would be faster.”

Marisol leaned back. “I still don’t get why your mom lets him stay. You don’t let a man like that into your house.”

Amara didn’t answer right away. She didn’t need to. It wasn’t about what Garrett had done. It was who he was. A white man, walking into their space like he belonged. Talking soft. Taking up oxygen. And Simone—Simone ate it up like it was leadership.

“I don’t care what he says or does,” Amara finally muttered. “He doesn’t get to be in our house.”

Marisol raised her glass in silent agreement.

That was enough of a plan for now.

Priya: Excited for the party tomorrow! Is Simone doing the veggie station again? Lol. Also—what’s with that white guy you mentioned? Is he, like, a party trick? Or some sociology experiment she’s running? Only Simone could make a man like that look like intentional design.

Amara smiled faintly. Priya was harmless. Sweet. She absolutely adored Simone—talked about her like she was some kind of progressive saint. And yet, she never seemed to notice how easily Simone let things shift right under her nose. Blind loyalty in a cute, recycled outfit.

That afternoon, she returned home. The house was quiet at first, until she stepped inside and heard it: laughter.

Nia’s.

She was sprawled on the couch, giggling. Garrett sat across from her, relaxed, holding a notepad.

“Seriously,” Nia laughed, “that’s not even a real quote.”

Garrett grinned. “It is if you say it with confidence.”

Amara’s stomach turned.

“What’s going on?”

Nia looked up. “He’s helping me with my college essay. Structure, flow… he’s actually really smart.”

Amara raised a brow. “Where’s Mom?”

“Out shopping. He’s staying the weekend.”

Garrett stood, all smiles. “Amara.”

She nodded tersely. “Right.”

“Shall we keep going?” he said to Nia.

Nia sighed dramatically. “Only if you stop lecturing me about follow-through and discipline.” She flopped into her seat with mock annoyance.

Garrett chuckled. “Noted. But maybe later.”

Amara lingered near the edge of the living room, arms crossed. The way Nia leaned toward Garrett slightly, how she laughed too easily, how she mimicked his phrasing—it all made Amara’s skin crawl.

She wasn’t just listening to him. She was absorbing him.

The house smelled different, too—citrusy and clean, but unfamiliar. Her own home felt like a showroom curated by someone else. Like she'd stumbled into a set where her role had already been recast. She wasn’t the daughter anymore. She was an intruder.

Minutes later, Simone returned, arms full of groceries.

Without missing a beat, Garrett stepped in, taking the bags, moving through the kitchen like he lived there. Simone beamed.

“He’s been amazing all day,” she said, handing him a list of decorations.

Amara bit down a retort. She stood in the kitchen doorway, watching Garrett unpack fresh herbs and vegetables like he belonged to some quiet, picture-perfect family sitcom. Simone gave him a warm smile and touched his arm lightly when thanking him.

Nia walked past Amara without a word, humming, carrying napkins to the patio.

Not a glance. Not a hi.

Amara stared after her, stomach twisting. It was like she’d been written out of the script.

Let him play house, she thought, jaw clenched. One more day. Then I flip the table.

Simone walked past her in that moment, arms now empty, checking the fridge and humming to herself.

“Hey, Honey,” she said offhandedly, not even looking up. “Glad you’re back.”

That was it. No mention of where she’d been. No concern, no tension. Just a casual note, like Amara had stepped out for five minutes, not vanished overnight.

Amara didn’t answer. She didn’t trust her voice.

For a second, she thought about saying something. Asking why no one had checked in. Why no one cared she’d been gone. But the words never made it past her lips.

She turned away instead, swallowing the sting.

She wasn’t sure what hurt more—that her mother had known she was gone… and just hadn’t cared. Or that Garrett’s presence had made her absence feel like nothing at all.