Heavier than it should have.

Not because of the clothes or the cheap souvenirs I picked up on my days off, but because every step up the front walk felt like I was sneaking into someone else’s house.

The porch light looked different. The curtains were not the ones I left.

And even the little plant by the door that I used to baby on weekends was gone.

I had this stupid fantasy on the plane that the kids would run to the door when they heard the car, that my husband would meet me on the porch, that we would have that dramatic movie moment where everyone talks over each other and cries and laughs and the neighbors roll their eyes because it is all too loud.

Instead, I open the door with my own key and walk straight into the smell of someone else’s cooking.

And a voice that was definitely not mine, shouting from the kitchen that dinner was almost ready.

My son was on the couch, half buried in a blanket, eyes glued to a game on his tablet.

He lifted his gaze just enough to see me, said a soft,

“Hey,”

That sounded more like a question than a greeting.

Then he went right back to tapping the screen.

My daughter was at the table with my mother-in-law, doing some kind of craft with glitter and glue.

She looked up, froze for maybe half a second, then stood and hugged her grandmother like a tiny rocket launching into orbit.