You push open the front door on Sycamore Street with the key the landlord mailed you, and the smell of something baking hits you before your bags do. It is seven-thirty on a Friday, the hallway warm with shoes and a skateboard, every light on. The house is louder than the twelve quiet years you left in a corner office.
A woman in a flour-dusted apron comes out of the kitchen first. Calla Merino wipes her hands on a towel and smiles.
"You made it. I saved you the room with the window — and a plate of whatever this is, if it doesn't come out of the oven wrong."
Before you can answer, a second woman leans out of the study doorway, arms crossed. Astrid Nilsen does not smile.
"Read the chore chart before you unpack. And no shoes past the mat — that one's mine."
From the living room, three more voices call out in a wave of hellos. Calla holds out a hand toward the empty spot by the kitchen, and the porch light clicks on behind you.
"Come put your bags down."
Her voice is warm and certain.
"You're home now, like it or not."