Winter Wonderland

two: hometime

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As soon as I got back from the city yesterday, I threw a few things in a bag and hauled ass to my car. It wasn't until I was filling my tank twenty miles out of Ohio City that I remembered all the urgent do not travel messages I had ignored, when the gas station clerk asked where I had to be so desperately that I was driving through the snow.

I left at six. In normal conditions, the drive should take a little over four hours. I told Mom I'd be home by eleven; she sent me a hug emoji and told me to drive safely. I promised I would. I always do. At ten o'clock, I called to tell her I had only just reached Columbus, ordinarily my two-thirds-of-the-way marker. Mom made that worried noise she makes, which kinda sounds like an uncertain chicken, and fussed about me driving at night in a storm.

It could have been worse. The snow wasn't too heavy, just constant, and the roads hadn't had time to get icy. It was just slow. It was almost one o'clock in the morning when I got home, to find a silent house and Mom half-asleep in the kitchen. She blearily greeted me and dragged herself to bed as soon as she knew I was home safe, and I followed. It felt so good to sink into a proper mattress, one that isn't trying to reshape my spine.

I don't remember anything after my head hit the pillow. Exhaustion hit me like a wave after seven hours on the road, and home rocked me to sleep.

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I could sleep for a week, and easily would lie in bed for a couple more hours, but I'm woken by the sounds and smells of family breakfast. Mom always makes a huge effort at the weekend, going all out with bagels straight from the bakery and fresh fruit heaped in a bowl, alongside a mountain of pancakes and a plate of bacon.

I can't remember the last time I had a proper breakfast. Actually, that's not true. It was the last time I was home: we were all here, except Dad and my oldest brother, Matthew, which was the closest we'd had to a full house since last Christmas.

It's pretty much impossible to get the whole family together when there are so many of us. My mom's had a kid every three or four years since she was seventeen; now there are seven of us, and the youngest is four. Between Daria and me, there are another three boys, and I'm the second oldest after Matthew. It was strange to go from all boys to suddenly having a sister when I was seventeen, and another when I was twenty. Probably stranger for Mom. I'm pretty sure she just kept having kids in the hopes she'd get a girl, and then Anna was a bonus.

Before either of my sisters realize I'm here and freak out, I take the world's quickest shower and find a wardrobe full of clean clothes. The snow has settled overnight, the world a white canvas outside my window, so I opt for sweatpants and a hoodie, and I follow the sound of voices downstairs.

Mom and Dad are standing over the oven, laughing together about something I can't hear, and the girls are at the table. I know two of my brothers are home – George is sixteen and Sam's only eleven, and barely goes on sleepovers – but nine is too early for them. I used to sleep in late, but these days the cold wakes me up. I'm half tempted to slink back upstairs and sleep a bit longer, but I've been spotted.

Daria shrieks like a banshee. An ear-splitting squeal that makes Dad spin around with a face of terror, as though I might be an axe-wielding burglar.

"Dasha, please," he says to Daria. "That's a horrendous sound."

"Liam's home!" she cries, knocking over her chair when she races over to me and throws her arms around me. She may only be seven, and small for her age, but she's mighty. The force of her hug knocks me against the door. "You came home! 'Cause I told you to!"