Sarah slammed the car door a little too hard. The sound echoed in the quiet cul-de-sac, a sharp punctuation mark on the end of her life as she knew it. Her childhood home loomed before her, a beacon of beige and blandness. She watched as her mother emerged from the front door, a casserole dish in hand, a welcoming smile plastered across her face.
"Oh, sweetie, you're here! Come in, come in! I made your favorite." Her mother’s voice was bright, almost unnaturally so. Sarah plastered a smile of her own, feeling the muscles in her face ache. The casserole smelled like comfort and defeat.
Inside, the house felt smaller, the furniture oversized. Her childhood trophies still lined the mantelpiece, silent reminders of a time when she was, at least in their eyes, successful. Now, surrounded by these relics of better times, she felt utterly reduced. She made a show of helping set the table, careful to avoid any eye contact with her father, whose gaze felt like a judgement.
Later, she found herself in the bathroom, staring at her reflection. The woman staring back looked tired, defeated, and, frankly, pathetic. She splashed cold water on her face, trying to wash away the feeling that she had somehow failed everyone, including herself.