The flight from Bangkok feels endless, but the hug at Riverside Airport makes it worth it. Mom smells like rosemary oil and something else I can’t place—worry, maybe. On the drive through Millbrook, the streets look smaller, the houses more tired. She chatters about book club and neighbors and everything except the dark circles makeup can’t hide.

“I made your favorite,” she says when we pull in. “Potato soup with—”

“Extra thyme,” I finish, grinning.

The grin dies in the doorway. The kitchen is a dish avalanche—counters, boxes, even the windowsill stacked with plates. The faucet wheezes out a stingy trickle.

“How long has it been like this?”

“A few weeks,” she says to the floor.

The pipes look original to the Carter administration. “Why didn’t you call someone?”

“I… forgot.”

The next morning I fish Dad’s toolbox out of the garage. It still smells like cold metal and Saturday mornings. I’m on my back under the sink with a flashlight in my teeth when Mom barrels in.

“STOP! Don’t touch that! Please!”

I bang my head, wrench clattering. She’s pale, shaking, fingers gripping the counter like it’s a cliff edge.

“It’s just a clog,” I say. “Call who?”

“A professional.” The word lands like a threat.

For two weeks we wash dishes in the tub like medieval peasants. For two weeks she flinches whenever I go near the kitchen. She does three nightly patrols of every lock. “I’m fine,” she lies over coffee. The air in the house feels wrong.

When she goes for groceries, I make a decision.

The u-bend loosens with a cough of mineral grit. My fingers meet something that isn’t pipe—plastic wrapped tight around something hard. I ease it out: a waterproof-wrapped flip phone and thick rolls of hundreds. Thirty thousand dollars sits in my palm, green and obscene.

The front door slams.

“Jeremy? I’m—”

She rounds the corner and stops dead. Apples roll across the linoleum. “Oh God. Oh no.” Her hands cover her face. “Why did you have to find it?”

“Whose money is this? And the phone?”

She drops into a chair, like a string got cut. “I’ve been lying to you your whole life.” A breath. “You have a brother.”

My brain stutters. “I—what?”

“I had a baby at seventeen. Before I met your father.” Tears slick her cheeks. “His name is Gerard.”

“Where is he?”

“I gave him up at five. I was alone. I was scared.” She shakes her head. “I never told your dad. Years passed. It got easier to pretend. Until six months ago—he found me. We did a DNA test. At first I was so happy. Then he started asking for money. Then things went missing—your dad’s pocket watch, my grandmother’s ring. Last month he showed up panicked, handed me the phone and the cash, told me to hide it, said people might come. Then he vanished.”

“What kind of people?”

“I don’t know.” The terror in her eyes is old and fresh all at once.

I power the flip phone up: 3% battery. The call log is a graveyard of unknown numbers and one contact: G. I call it from my phone.

“Yeah?” a rough, tired voice says.

“Is this Gerard?”

Silence. “Who’s asking?”

“I’m Jeremy. Lisa’s son.”

Another beat. Softer now: “Jeremy…? You’re my little brother.”

We meet at Murphy’s Diner off Highway 9. He walks in and it’s like seeing my face through a funhouse mirror: same dark hair, same stubborn jaw, harder angles. He slides into the booth.

“You look like her,” he says.

“You look like me,” I say.

He laughs, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Then he pulls out a badge.

“I’m a cop,” he says. “Eastside PD. Undercover. I got in too deep with a crew moving drugs and laundering money. When they got suspicious, I had to disappear.”

“So the cash—”

“Evidence. And my own savings. I needed Mom to stash it where no one would look. I took a couple things to keep cover. I was going to pay her back.” He scrubs his face. “I didn’t tell her anything because the less she knew, the safer she was. The case wrapped last week. Arrests. Convictions. I was making sure it was really over.”

“She hid it in the pipes,” I say. “We’ve been bathing our dishes.”

He winces. “I’ll fix the sink. And tell her everything. I owe her that much.”

That night we sit around the kitchen table, the three of us. Gerard tells it again, slower, filling in the dark. Mom cries in a way that isn’t just fear anymore—it’s release. “I’m sorry I gave you up,” she whispers.

“You did what you had to,” he says. “So did I.”

He replaces the elbow joint, tightens the collar nut, and for the first time in weeks water runs honest and strong. We wash dishes in their proper place, passing plates like we’ve always done this.

Here’s what sticks with me: secrets are mushrooms; they love the dark and they grow fast on shame. But the truth is stubborn. It floats. Even when you cram it in the plumbing, it finds a way out.

Sundays now, Gerard and I meet for coffee. Turns out having a brother is better than I imagined, especially one whose stories make my travel vlogs look like a trip to the corner store.

“So what’s next?” I ask last week.

He actually grins, and this time it reaches his eyes. “Maybe you teach me how to make one of those vlogs. I’ve got some tales.”

I raise my cup. “To new beginnings.”

“And old recipes,” he says, clinking mugs.

“Boys! Dinner!” Mom calls from the kitchen, where the potato soup is simmering—extra thyme, three bowls on the counter.

Some things are worth coming home for.