The smell of waffles filled the air, the soft feel of plush carpet pressed against my elbows as I lay sprawled out on the living room floor, eyes glued to the television. Transformers was on, the intro music blasting through the TV speakers like an electric jolt to my little kid heart. Saturday mornings—this was what I lived for. I wouldn't trade them for anything... except maybe not having the arm fall off of my "battle worn" Optimus Prime toy for the 500th time.
It was strange, maybe, for a kid to be so into Transformers, but back then, it was my whole world. I didn't just love the action figures, I loved everything with that Autobot symbol on it. Even if it was just a pencil, I'd act like it was the Holy Grail, insisting that it had to be mine. I could quote every episode word for word. I'd try to move on from it—be more like the "other" kids, the ones who didn't spend their weekends watching robots fight each other—but every time I got a glimpse of a shiny new figure or heard that familiar theme song, it was like a switch flipped and I was right back there.
As I got older, though, it started to fade a little. Not because I didn't care anymore—I still loved it—but because I started realizing that maybe liking just Transformers wasn't exactly the best way to fit in. My tastes broadened, but every now and then I felt a twinge of guilt…like I was turning my back on the Autobot's, and once I did, there was no going back.
Those days felt so far away now. The weekends spent in front of the TV turned into hanging out with friends, then art classes, and before I knew it, I was heading off to college, then work. I found myself sitting in a tiny cubicle, 300 miles away, typing away at spreadsheets, an old motorcycle jacket hanging off my chair that my dad bought me. He'd said it was "cool." I don't think I'll ever like bikes like he did, but hey, it was the thought that counted. My love for Transformers had faded into the background, but the old memories stayed.
And then... well, Dad passed away. That hit me hard. But even worse? I saw it in my mother's face when I came back to the house. I hadn't talked to her in years—not since my decision to leave—and I guess I didn't expect much of a reunion. But when I walked into the room at his funeral, it was like I wasn't even there. She didn't say a word to me. Not even a glance. Like I was a ghost. Maybe she thought I was the reason Dad had gotten so sick. Maybe I was. I couldn't even look at her for too long—I just stared out the window, pretending I wasn't feeling that icy chill in my chest. I haven't seen her since then. Just a few cards exchanged at Christmas. I've had enough of the silence between us. I couldn't fix things when he was still alive, but I have to try now.
I had moved back to the house, but it wasn't the same. It had felt so empty, just like the last ten years between my mother and me. After Dad died, Mom left. She couldn't bear being there anymore, not with all the memories. She moved to a small apartment about 20 minutes away. I hadn't seen her since I'd left for the job, but I knew I had to go visit. She needed me... and I needed her too, I guess. I rubbed my eyes, trying to blink away the tears that were threatening to spill again. I could feel my hand shaking as I reached for the taxi door handle. "Are you okay, Sir?" the driver asked, his voice full of concern. "No... I'm not," I muttered, shaking my head. "But I will be. I have to be."
I stepped out of the cab, the cold air hitting me as I closed the door behind me. The jacket Dad gave me—a silly, leather thing, oversized even now—managed to keep me warm enough. I shoved my hands deep into the pockets and walked up the path toward the front door of the house I used to know so well. A silver "R" glinted in the sunlight on the doorknocker. My fingers fumbled with the key as I reached for the knob. It was a moment I had been putting off for years, but now there was no more avoiding it. I was home. And I had no idea what would happen next.