The Path

The Path

I raced home from class, pretending the traffic lights mattered more than the house waiting for me. Five points for green. Minus ten for red. The train was a guaranteed loss. I kept a running tally in my head, the numbers clicking forward like a slot machine that might pay out calm if I won.

If I focused hard enough on the math, I didn’t have to think about what came next.

The game started months ago, sometime after I moved in. Back when I still believed that if I kept things organized—emotionally, spatially, internally—I could prevent chaos from touching me. I had spent years perfecting that skill. Years learning how to stay just far enough away from other people’s damage to survive it.

I pulled into the garage and shut off the engine. The silence lasted exactly half a second.

The noise hit me as soon as I opened the door. Children shrieking. Feet pounding. Laughter sharp and breathless, ricocheting off the walls. Matt was chasing them through the living room, pretending he couldn’t catch them, while Kal barreled behind, teeth grazing pant legs in the clumsy way puppies mistake for affection.

“Daddy! Noooo!” Georgia screamed as Matt scooped her up and attacked her with kisses.

“No, Daddy!” Sam yelled, launching himself onto Matt’s back. “I’ll get you!” He went straight for Matt’s armpits. A known weak spot.

“Hey guys,” I said. “I’m home.”

“Tabbi!” Georgia shrieked. “Help us!” She giggled as I dropped my bag and keys and dove into the pile. Limbs everywhere. Someone’s elbow jammed into my ribs. Kal barked, indignant at being excluded.

A year ago, I would have been alone in a quiet apartment, congratulating myself on the silence. On the control. On the way I could close the door and keep the world out whenever I wanted.

After things settled, I suggested showers. Matt and Sam were heading to a gaming event nearby—something Sam had been counting down to all week. Georgia had stayed home sick from school, and the plan was for us to stay in. Something calm. Something easy. A movie, maybe. Snuggling under blankets.

That was still the plan when we sat down to eat.

It changed the moment Matt told Sam to grab his things.

“But I want to go too,” Georgia said, her voice already tight. “I feel better now.”

“I know,” I told her. “But you stayed home sick today. Tonight, you and I get a quiet night. Just us girls.”

I reached for her, but she pulled away.

“I don’t want to stay home with you,” she said. “I want to go!”

The words landed harder than they should have. I felt my chest tighten, the familiar instinct to retreat already stirring. I stayed where I was.

The tears came fast after that. First a few, then all of them. Matt tried to step in, but the dam had already broken. Georgia’s face crumpled, her body folding in on itself as if the disappointment had weight.

I told Matt to go. They were on a schedule. I could handle this.

The door shut behind them.

Georgia collapsed onto the floor, kicking and screaming, the sound raw and animalistic in a way that made my skin prickle. It wasn’t just noise, it was grief, rage, fear, all of it spilling out at once.

I stood there, frozen, holding a box of tissues like a useless offering.

This wasn’t what I had signed up for.

The thought came fast and sharp, and I hated myself for it as soon as it surfaced. I had known there would be hard moments. I just hadn’t known how quickly they would reach for the parts of me I kept hidden.

I tried to guide her toward her room. Offered a bath. Offered quiet. Offered calm.

She screamed louder.

“I hate you!” she yelled. “Leave me alone!”

The words hit somewhere deep and old. Somewhere that remembered walking away when things got too heavy. Packing up. Starting over. Choosing quiet over chaos every single time.

I had done that before. More than once.

I sat beside her on the bed anyway, my hands clenched in my lap so she wouldn’t see them shake. I told her we could talk when she was ready. I told her I loved her. I told her I was there.

She wasn’t ready.

When I finally closed her door and walked away, my stomach twisted hard enough to make me nauseous. I sat on the couch and stared at the blank TV, listening to her sob through the walls.

I thought about how much of my life had been built around escape. Leaving homes that felt unsafe. Leaving relationships that asked too much. Leaving responsibility before it could swallow me whole. I had learned early that independence was protection. Privacy was safety. Silence was survival.

I thought about her mother. About the way anger there turned sharp and personal. About the way I’d learned to brace myself for attacks that came sideways and unexpectedly. About how easy it would be to decide I wasn’t enough, how familiar that story already felt.

I hadn’t signed up to be afraid in my own home again.

I hadn’t signed up to wonder whether I could protect these kids from someone else’s damage.

I hadn’t signed up for the part where I wanted to leave, and didn’t.

Thirty minutes passed.

Georgia’s door creaked open.

She scooted across the floor on her bottom, stopping every few inches to glance up at me before looking back down at her hands. The approach felt tentative, like she wasn’t sure the ground would hold her weight.

“Are you ready to talk?” I asked.

She nodded.

She climbed onto the couch, leaving space between us, her body still tight with caution.

“I just wanted to go with Dad and Sam,” she said. “I felt left out.”

“I know,” I said. And I meant it.

She leaned into me slowly, like she wasn’t sure I would still be there. Her head fit perfectly beneath my chin, the trust of that movement settling heavily on my chest.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean it.”

I wrapped my arm around her, my hand resting lightly on her shoulder. Her body relaxed, the tension draining out of her in a way that felt terrifying and undeserved.

“That’s okay,” I said. “Big feelings happen. We work through them together.”

She nodded, already calmer.

“Can we watch a movie?”

“Yes,” I said. “Absolutely.”

As she settled against me, I felt something shift, not relief, exactly, but recognition. This wasn’t about getting it right. It wasn’t about fixing everything. It was about staying when every instinct I had ever relied on told me to run.

This wasn’t what I had signed up for.

But staying—really staying—was already changing me. And for the first time, I understood that this family, with all its mess and noise and fear, was not a detour from the life I wanted.

It was the path.