Chapter 18 - THE BROOKLINE KITCHEN
Twenty minutes later, I pulled my car into the driveway of my parents’ modest, comfortable home in Brookline.
Warm, golden light spilled out from the windows onto the snow-dusted front lawn. A simple wreath hung from the front door, welcoming and unpretentious.
I grabbed the fresh loaf of sourdough bread from the passenger seat, stepped out into the crisp winter air, and walked up the front steps. Before I could even raise my hand to knock, the front door swung open.
Mom stood in the entryway, wearing a simple apron over her sweater, her face lit up with a warm, genuine smile that had nothing to do with social status or net worth.
“Gwen! You made it, darling!” Mom exclaimed, pulling me into a warm, tight embrace that smelled of baking bread and vanilla.
“Hi, Mom. Brought the sourdough just like you asked,” I smiled, holding up the bakery bag.
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Dad walked up behind her, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel, his eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine happiness. “Ah, perfect timing. The roast is just about out of the oven, and Stella’s making the gravy.”
I stepped inside, kicking off my boots in the entryway, hanging my coat on the rack without a second glance. There was no tweed coat here, no hidden cameras, no theatrical traps. Just a warm home, filled with people who had finally learned how to see each other for who they truly were.
