FISHER
I’ve never feltnervous being at my parents’ house before, but with Ebba in tow and knowing we have a week with them before we head out for the Australian Open, I’m more than a little worried about how this time might go.
I set Ebba’s luggage out of my SUV. We flew back to Miami a few days ago so Ebba could pack up her stuff and then flew into Houston this morning and briefly stopped at my place before making the drive to my parents. They live about two hours from Houston in a small town, River Hollow, that’s mostly horse country. I’m still not sure how they ever found this place, but they love it.
The ranch style house is modest in size but well kept. My mom loves to grow flowers and always had her hands in the dirt when I was a kid. It’s because of her that I have a green thumb. I just never have any hopes of keeping anything alive with my travel schedule.
I’m pulling out my duffle when the front door opens and my mom squeals, heading my way with open arms.
“Hey, Momma?—”
She bypasses me and goes straight for Ebba hovering behind me.
Ebba shoots a wide-eyed expression my way a second before my mom envelops her in her arms.
“Oh, my girl. It’s so good to see you.” My mom sways back and forth, holding tight to Ebba.
Ebba’s panicked expression quickly relaxes, and she closes her eyes, hugging my mom back.
“It’s good to see you, too.”
My mom pulls away and takes Ebba’s face between her two hands. “You’re somehow even more beautiful. You have no idea how much we’ve missed you sweet girl.”
Since my parents were the only people who knew we were together before it created a special bond. We were free to just be us when we saw them. We didn’t have to pretend like all the other times.
“Are you guys hungry?” my mom asks. Before either of us has a chance to answer, she says, “I made cucumber sandwiches and homemade chips.”
I scrunch my nose. “You made chips. Like potato chips?”
My mom turns to me. “It’s actually quite easy and they taste better than that processed crap from the grocery store. You’ll see.”
She walks past me for the house.
“No hug for me?” I call out, arms open wide.
“Nope,” she says, not bothering to turn around. “You’re not my favorite kid anymore.”
My mouth drops open, and I swing around to find Ebba bent in half and giggling. “Oh, you think it’s funny that my mom just admitted to loving you more than me?”
She straightens, little giggles still escaping her. “I think it’s hysterical.” She pats me on the shoulder as she goes to pass me. “You bring the bags in. I’m going to help your mom set the table.”
“You’re really going to make fun of me with my own mother, aren’t you?” I tease, watching her retreating figure head toward the front door.
She turns around and gives me the sassiest head tilt and smile. “Probably.”
Shaking my head, I finish unloading the car and shoulder her bag and mine so I can wheel our suitcases behind me.
Inside, I hear my mom and dad along with Ebba in the kitchen. I’m happy they’re embracing her like no time at all has ever passed.
Dropping our bags in the guestroom I make a quick pit stop in the bathroom before joining them in the kitchen.
Remnants of my childhood cling to the house. Like the chicken shaped crock my mom uses to hold her overflowing collection of wooden spoons and the framed art of my hand from a first grade art class.
“I was thinking later we could make my kitchen sink cookies. You used to love those so much.”
Ebba beams at my mom like this is the best news she could ever receive. “That sounds amazing. I haven’t had those in so long.”
“Hey, son.” My dad throws his arm around my shoulders. He’s who I got my height from. While my mom is short at five-foot-one he’s a verifiable giant beside her at six-foot-six.