Edgar turned his key and stepped inside.
The apartment was just as he’d left it — impeccably clean, almost staged. The air was thick with the scent of vanilla spray, underscored by lavender plug-ins, lemon wipes, and some kind of aerosol linen mist that clung to the walls. Faintly, beneath it all, was something else. Something old. The hallway light cast a soft glow over the entryway as he loosened his tie and slipped off his shoes. He glanced at the spotless coffee table — not a can, not a crumb.
“I’m home!” he called brightly. “Day one’s in the books.”
He set his bag by the door and made his way down the hall, talking as he went.
“Everyone was really nice. Gwen introduced me around—she’s the manager, I think I told you about her. Anyway, everyone was super friendly, and they invited me to lunch across the street. I said yes, of course. Great for team bonding, right?”
He chuckled at his own joke, even as he passed through the dining room.
“They also asked me to happy hour. Just one drink. Nicole—she’s one of the people on my team—she’s great, really sweet girl, you guys would like her. She’s the one who noticed the note. Said she was jealous of how close we are.”
He stepped into the kitchen, where his mother sat at the table in her robe, hands folded neatly in her lap. Edgar leaned down and kissed her gently on the crown of her head.
He laughed softly. “Funny, huh? But I’m glad we have that tradition now.”
His eyes drifted toward the drawer. The green pen still lay there, uncapped.
He crossed the room and picked it up.
“Mom,” he teased, capping it with care, “if you forget to cap the pen, how are you supposed to write tomorrow’s note if it’s dried-out?”
He placed the pen back in the drawer — beside the others.
Dozens of them, all the same.
He smiled at her. “I didn’t get a chance to eat the macaroni,” he said. “Like I said, had lunch with the team. So, I figured I’d have it for dinner instead.”
He patted his father on the shoulder as he passed. “Hope you didn’t wait up.”
His father, as always, sat beside the kitchen table, his posture slightly slumped, hands resting idly in his lap.
Edgar popped the Tupperware into the microwave. While it spun, he washed his hands at the sink, humming softly to himself — a tune from childhood, something cheerful and slightly off-key.
When the microwave beeped, he dried his hands, carefully retrieved the warm container, and carried it to the table.
He sat down across from his parents, adjusting his placemat so it lined up just right. His mother was in her usual spot, and his father sat tall beside her, gaze fixed on the blank screen across the room, with Edgar’s old college mug placed carefully in front of him, a teabag still floating in the darkened water.
Their skin had taken on an ashen hue, their eyes cloudy and unmoving — but they looked peaceful. Still. Dead still. Quiet.
He smiled, relieved. The apartment had finally settled. No more shouting. No more slammed doors. Just the scent of vanilla spray and the comfort of home. His father’s gaze hadn’t moved. The mug sat untouched, the tea long cold, the bag still steeping in silence.
Edgar had always wanted a first day worth remembering. Now, he’d never forget it. Edgar picked up his fork, paused, and looked up at them with genuine affection.
“Enough about me,” he said with a smile. “How was your day?”