A six-hour flight in the middle of the night makes for a very cranky Kennedy. By the time I turn up at my parents' house – seven am once I've made it through the airport – I'm a tired, crinkled mess. My mother, to her credit, does not comment on my unholy appearance as she opens the door but blinks once, then twice, and throws her arms around my neck.

"Come to mama, sugar," she says. She's imitating Sweet Home Alabama, a film we've watched more times than I can count.

I pull back slightly, taking in her perfect top knot and dewy brown skin. Even at seven in the morning, she never fails to look effortless. "Come on, honey," she says, guiding me inside as my dad grabs my case from the Uber. Leading me into the living room, she sits me down and takes my hands, holding them in hers. "I can't believe you're really here. I've missed you."

I smile at the excitement on her face. Truth be told, despite the fact we message regularly, I should have made more of an effort to visit them. "I've missed you too."

"So," she says, "tell me everything. How's your job going? How's Jess doing? Any romantic prospects on the horizon?"

"Oh, Jeez," Dad says as he walks in with my luggage, "give the girl a break. She looks exhausted."

"Well, if she hadn't had to work over Christmas, we could have caught up then." There is a bite to her voice, but when she turns back to face me, that moment of disappointment has been replaced with motherly warmth. "I just want to know what my long-lost daughter has been up to."

"She wasn't lost," Dad says. "She was busy living her life as adults tend to do."

And so the arguing begins. I get to my feet, rubbing at a stain on my shirt that may or may not be the raspberry jello I ate on the plane, and let out an exaggerated yawn. "Dad's right. I'm super tired, Mom. Can I get a little sleep, and then we can catch up later, okay?"

Knowing she has no choice, she sighs and gets to her feet. "Of course, you go and get some sleep, baby. We've left your room exactly the same, and there are some fresh towels in the linen closet if you'd like a shower later. If you leave your travel clothes outside, I'll get them washed and ironed, and I can cook you breakfast when you wake up – pancakes? Eggs?"

"For crying out loud," Dad says. "She's not ten years old anymore. She doesn't need you to make her smiley face pancakes and wash all her clothes–" he stops and gives her a wicked look, "–I'll take some of those pancakes, though."

Mom rolls her eyes, but there's a smile on her lips that she can't quite suppress. "She might not be ten years old, but she'll always be my baby."

I'd forgotten that this was the problem with coming home. Somehow, despite being a full-functioning adult with responsibilities, I would always just be a kid to them. "That sounds great," I say, squeezing Mom's arm, "I'm going to head upstairs, okay? See you in a little while."

I head upstairs, into my childhood bedroom, and close the door behind me. Pink – I'd forgotten the walls were pink. Even as a teenager, I was your typical sheltered, preppy girl who got straight A's and said yes to every extra-curricular activity. The thought of becoming a big-city New Yorker never occurred until after I graduated from UCLA, where I found myself in desperate need of change. From there, I hopped on a plane and found myself an apartment before starting Long Bridge Real Estate. The rest, as they say, is history.

Of course, my parents were devastated, my mother in particular, though it was clear that Dad was too. I was their only child, the one thing they poured all their efforts into. With me gone, it meant facing the reality of their strained marriage. Still, they've made it this far without one of them going down for murder; how bad can things be?

Exhausted, I take off my makeup and leave my clothes outside before climbing into bed. I rest my cheek on my freshly washed pillow and embrace the satin sheets. While having my freedom in New York is nice, I've missed having someone look after me. 

Desperate to know how Mulan is doing, I pull out my phone and send Jess a quick message, who responds straight away with a picture of a curled-up Mulan on her lap. Jess never lets Mulan on her lap, which makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. I put away my phone, then close my eyes and let my thoughts wander, not the least surprised when they gravitate to Milo. More specifically, our weekend at his cabin. I focus on each detail, replaying the night by the warm, roaring fire, his skin hot to touch as it brushed against mine. Before long, I've lost myself to the thoughts completely.

When I eventually wake up, it's to the smell of eggs, bacon, and the distinct aroma of my mother's vanilla and syrup pancakes. I climb out of bed and open my suitcase, changing into a shirt and jeans before heading into the kitchen.

While the rest of the house looks exactly the same, they've had this kitchen renovated, made to look like one of those open-plan show kitchens you find in fancy furniture stores. I sit at the new island counter, running my hand along the beautiful white marble.

"Do you like it?" Mom asks. She's standing over the state-of-the-art stove, putting the last few finishing touches to my breakfast before placing the plate in front of me.

"I love it." In fact, I've always loved the properties this side of LA. There is something so elegant and sophisticated about them. The manicured gardens, the tall Spanish pillars – it's what got me into Real Estate in the first place.

The rest of the morning is spent in the hot tub by the pool. Sometimes, I forget that LA isn't as cold as New York, and despite the fact it's not exactly warm out, it certainly feels it compared to home. I sink into the bubbles, another reminder of that weekend with Milo, how he'd kissed me in the hot tub. Why is it that everything reminds me of him? And why can't I bring myself to care?

At twelve, Mom and I go for a walk around town like we used to. She's dressed for a hike: tight black yoga pants and a GymShark tank top, her water bottle clutched in her hand. I give her a side eye, letting her know I'm not doing anything strenuous, and we set off down the street.

This slow-paced life feels strange now that I'm used to the bustle of New York. As Mom and I stroll the store-lined streets, the only people we see are those walking their miniature dogs. I'm not used to having so much space to roam.

"So, how are you and Dad doing?" I ask. One of the reasons I'd been glad to move out was because I couldn't stand their constant bickering. It reached a point where they couldn't even talk without some kind of argument, and this morning had proven things hadn't changed much. At least, from what I can see.

"Oh, you're always worrying about us," she says with a dismissive wave of her hand, "we're fine, Kennedy. Sometimes love isn't puppies and rainbows and whispering sweet nothings. Sometimes love is picking up medicine when one of us is sick or having coffee ready for when the other wakes up. We might annoy the hell out of each other, but it's when we stop doing those little things for each other that I'll worry." She turns to me now, raising an eyebrow in a way that suggests she's about to interrogate me. "So, are you going to tell me what you're doing here? As much as I'd like to believe it's because you missed me, a mother's intuition tells me there's something else."

"You're not entirely wrong," I say, looking over, "though I do miss you."

She smiles. "So, what is it?"

We walk a few more steps before I jump into telling her everything. Well, not everything – my night with Milo wasn't exactly PG – but the key points: my hurt over Lucas, my dissatisfaction with Long Bridge Real Estate, my fear of loving Milo, and all the while, she listens intently, letting me get it off my chest. By the time I've finished, it feels like a weight has lifted.

"That's why I came here," I say. "I just wanted a distraction for a few days so that I have a clear head when I go home. I don't want to make any mistakes, you know?"

"There is nothing wrong with making mistakes," she says, "god knows I have – it's the mistakes that help you grow. But for what it's worth, I think it's brave of you to give up a job you know was making you unhappy, and just because you've chosen not to work at that company doesn't mean you have to give up Real Estate completely."

Reaching over, I squeeze her hand in gratitude. "Thanks, Mom."

"You're welcome," she says. "Well, if a distraction is what you're looking for, a distraction is what you'll get," and she grabs my hand and speed walks ahead.

A/N

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