A/N: I'm so excited to finally share this story with you all! I've put more energy into this than any other story I've written; each chapter has been written, rewritten, revised, and proofread many times to make it as close to perfect as possible!
Huge thanks to HappierThanMost for inspiring me to write this story with The Beginning and letting me run my crazy ideas by them.
The title is inspired by Conan Gray's song Family Line. Feel free to give it a listen if you want to, it sets the scene and overall feeling for this story.
The leather beneath my fingers grew slick as I gripped the steering wheel, my foot barely tapping the gas pedal as my Chevrolet crept through the neighborhood. I squinted to read each passing street sign, pausing after every one or so to double-check the envelope clutched in my hand. I wished I could locate the street sooner, and yet I prayed it would never come. I didn't bother double-checking when I finally reached it. St. Louis Ave.
I carefully turned onto the street and began surveying the house numbers. 722, 724, 726, okay, I'm on the wrong side. I shifted my gaze to my left. 727, 729, 731, 733. Wait, did that say 731?
My foot shifted from tapping the gas to slamming on the brake, causing my car to go from its speed of 5 miles per hour to a standstill. I shifted my car into reverse and carefully inched backward until I was centered with the house. It was a single-story home, supported by red, crumbling bricks on the bottom and chipped cream-colored paneling on top. The roof was mostly intact, minus a shingle or two, and an old, wooden swing hung on the front porch.
I found myself comparing it to the other houses on the block before I even realized what I was doing. Most of the houses were similarly designed, though not many of them were kept up as well. It seemed that broken shutters and boarded-up windows were the norm around here, along with yellow grass. I supposed the house looked as good as could be expected, not that it was anything much in the first place.
Stop being so judgemental, I thought to myself, this is the behavior you've been trying to escape.
I figured loitering in the middle of the street wasn't going to accomplish anything, so I proceeded to circle the block approximately six times before deciding to park a few houses prior and on the opposite side of the street. I needed time to think before someone spotted me. The sun boldly reflected the shiny black paint on my car, seemingly agreeing that I didn't belong there. I knew my Chevrolet Impala wasn't the best car for a stake-out of sorts, but I didn't think it was going to stick out like a sore thumb. Then again, if I were able to man up and go knock on the door I wouldn't need to look inconspicuous in the first place.
I looked down at the envelope I was clutching in my hand. Despite the wrinkles and creases from nervously folding it over and over, the neat cursive and bold pen strokes of the return address read clearly: 731 North St. Louis Avenue, Tulsa, OK 74106.
I studied the house once more. I had imagined where this address may bring me a million times in my head, never able to form a concrete picture. Now, sitting face to face with it, I only had more questions. Was this the home where she chose to start her family? Or just a place to stay for a short while? Does she still live here? Does she even still want to see me?
The sound of a car rumbling down the street jolted me from my thoughts. I turned to face the sound and saw an old, blue pickup truck parking at the curb of the very house I was observing. I half-wished, half-prayed that she would step out of the vehicle. Instead, a hauntingly familiar face got out of the driver's seat. He was tall, at least 6'2", with short, dark hair. It can't be, I thought. It's been over 20 years, surely he'd look older.
Then it hit me. It must be her son, or rather, my nephew. Fudge it, I thought, fed up with my own hesitation. I quickly got out of my car and began jogging up the street before I could stop myself.
The man looked to be around 20 from a distance, but appeared to be older the closer I got. His work uniform was wrinkled and covered with dust, as were his jeans. His tool belt and sturdy boots were in a similar state, his brow creased with worry lines and sweat. I watched his brow crease even further as he spotted the garbage cans at his curb. He let out a sigh that sounded achingly familiar to my own father when he was frustrated with me. He had just begun to drag the first can back to the house when I reached him, slowing my jog.
He stopped in his tracks when he saw me, his confused eyes searching my face as if he were trying to remember where he knew me from. How do you tell someone you've never met how much they could mean to you? I didn't have an answer, so I started with the one person we had in common.
"Hi—uh, I'm looking for Margaret Pri—pardon, I mean Margaret Curtis. Does she live here?"
The man let out another sigh as a wave of sadness washed over his face. "She and my dad died in January of last year. I'm her son, can I help you?" he said, looking as though he had answered this question a thousand times.
I have lived a life of regret, don't get me wrong. I regret the way I was raised, the way I've looked down on others, the way I continue to look down on people simply because they are different from me, the list goes on and on. But I have never felt a bigger sense of regret than I did in that moment.
January of last year? That was what—21 months ago? Just under two years. I'd mourned her plenty of times in the past, but there was always the promise of tomorrow. Of one day seeing her again. Now that chance was forever taken from me. I was angry at my lack of choice in the matter, and even angrier at myself for not taking advantage of that choice when I had the chance. I didn't need any more regrets. It was time for me to stop waiting for the "right time" and start acting now. Easier said than done, though.
"My name is Michael Price, I am—or excuse me was—Margaret's brother."
The boy's eyes instantly went from sad, blue orbs to piercing daggers of ice. He didn't hesitate for a single second before responding.
"Do not come here. Ever again."
He abandoned the garbage cans in the road and made his way toward the house, not sparing me a second glance. I thought about all the time I had spent waiting to come here all that I had sacrificed to finally make it happen. Where did that leave me? With a dead sister and a nephew who wanted nothing to do with me. I didn't miss the look of hatred in his eyes when he realized who I was. And I didn't miss the slam of the door, either.