CHAPTER 143: THE ROAD BACK HOME

The afternoon sun had begun to soften, casting long shadows across the village lane as Noel wheeled his bike toward the front gate.

The woven baskets on either side bulged with fresh produce, jars of jam, packets of dried herbs, and what looked suspiciously like a half-knit scarf tucked under a bunch of green onions.

"Careful with that one!" his grandmother called from the porch, pointing at the larger basket. "The mangoes are ripe—they’ll bruise easy if you ride like a mad dog."

"I’m not a mad dog, Grandma," Noel muttered, chuckling as he adjusted the straps again. "More like a tired one."

She stepped closer and fussed over the stack again, hands fluttering from the jars to the cloth bundle tied at the back.

"You forgot the little tin. The cinnamon sticks are in there—you can’t cook proper stew without cinnamon. And take this too—your favorite biscuits. Still warm."

"Grandma," he said, laughing now. "I’m going to tip over before I even reach the gate."

"Nonsense," she waved him off, eyes glinting. "You’ve always been strong. You came out of the womb screaming and kicking, remember?"

"No," Noel teased, "I was kind of busy being born."

She swatted his arm with a fond smile, then reached up to smooth the front of his shirt, though it didn’t need smoothing.

Her hands lingered there a moment longer.

"I know I talk too much," she said softly, the humor in her voice flickering into something else. "But the house gets too quiet when you’re not here. I like filling the silence with someone I love."

Noel’s expression softened. "I’ll come again soon."

"Promise?"

He nodded. "Promise."

She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a small cloth pouch, tying it to one of the bike’s handles. "For the road," she said. "And no, don’t open it now. Wait till you get home."

He smiled, then swung one leg over the bike and tested the weight. It wobbled slightly, baskets swaying like little boats on either side.

His grandma crossed her arms. "You’re going to wobble all the way back like a circus act."

He smirked, pulling his helmet over his head. "Then I hope someone’s selling tickets."

She laughed, shaking her head. "Go. Before I pack the kitchen sink too."

He gave one last wave, then pedaled off slowly, carefully.

Behind him, her voice called out again—one more piece of advice, one more warning about potholes, speed, and staying hydrated.

He didn’t answer this time. He just smiled.

The ride stretched out like a winding lullaby, the rhythm of the tires humming against the quiet country road.

Noel kept his pace slow—the baskets on either side swayed with every bump, every turn, reminding him just how much Grandma had "lovingly burdened" him.

The air cooled as the sky turned amber, and a few clouds drifted lazily overhead.

Every now and then, a leaf would flutter past his handlebars. He didn’t rush. He didn’t really want to.

The road home felt quieter today. Not lonely—just still.

He wondered if the kitchen lights would already be on, spilling gold across the driveway.

By the time he turned onto his street, the sunset had draped the rooftops in gold.

The familiar scent of fried onions and something rich and savory hit him long before he reached the driveway.

He blinked at the kitchen window, its warm light glowing like a quiet welcome.

"...Mom?"

He hadn’t expected her to be home this early.

Rolling the bike into the garage, he unhooked the baskets and staggered under their weight.

The jars clinked against each other as he carried them up the steps. The door creaked open.

"You’re finally back," his mom called from the kitchen, not looking up. "I thought you said you were visiting Grandma, not moving in with her."

Noel let the basket thump gently against the kitchen tiles. "Yeah... she kind of had me hostage. She said, ’just one more night,’ and then pulled out the photo albums."

His mom chuckled, stirring a pot with a wooden spoon. "Classic. Did she fatten you up before letting you go?"

"She tried." He rubbed his stomach, mock-exhausted. "I think I still have rice pudding in my bloodstream."

She finally turned around, eyeing the mountain of jars, dried peppers, and sealed containers in the basket. "Let me guess—she sent you home with half her pantry?"

"Only half?" He gave a crooked smile. "You should’ve seen the other bag. I left behind a dozen bananas, three loaves of bread, and a bag of salt the size of my face."

"You made the right call," she said, flipping off the stove burner. "We’ve already got dinner."

He sniffed the air. "Is that chicken?"

"With rosemary. You hungry?"

"I could eat an entire planet."

"Well, don’t. I worked all day for this." She raised a brow. "Wash your hands. You’re on plate duty."

He moved toward the sink, but paused halfway.

"...Sorry I didn’t text you last night," he said. His voice dropped a little. "I meant to. I just... fell asleep."

She looked over her shoulder, and this time her expression softened.

Her hair was tied back in that messy bun she always wore when she was tired but refused to slow down.

A small grease stain on her blouse told him she hadn’t even changed out of her work clothes yet.

"You’re here now. That’s enough."

Noel gave a quiet nod. The tightness in his chest eased, even just a little.

The soft hum of the kitchen filled the silence—pots clinking, water running, the low murmur of the radio drifting from the corner.

He dried his hands, fetched two plates, and set them gently on the table.

Behind him, his mother hummed to the melody playing through the speakers.

For the first time all day, Noel let himself breathe.

The kitchen’s warmth wrapped around him, rosemary and radio hum mingling in the air.

Noel stacked the plates with a small clink, moving slower now—his muscles stiff from the long ride and the heavy baskets.

The front door opened with a creak, followed by the soft shuffle of shoes on the mat.

"Smells like I came home just in time," came his father’s voice—tired, but warm.

"In the nick of it," his mom called back, flicking off the stove and moving to plate the food. "Wash up, we’re starting."

His dad walked in moments later, tugging off his jacket and tossing it over the back of a chair.

A library card still peeked out from his shirt pocket.

"Hey, kid," he said, giving Noel a light pat on the shoulder as he passed. "Grandma release you from her clutches, finally?"

"Barely," Noel muttered, sliding into his seat with a subtle wince.

His mom’s eyes caught the motion. "What’s wrong with your leg?"

"It’s nothing—just a little sore."

"A little?" she arched a brow. "You’re sitting like someone just finished a marathon."

Noel tried to stretch his leg under the table but winced again, biting back a groan.

His dad had already sat down, fork in hand. "That’s why I told you to take the car," he said, not unkindly, just matter-of-fact. "But no—’it’s only a short ride,’ you said."

"It’s short—when you’re not hauling half of Grandma’s kitchen," Noel muttered.

His mom set a glass of water in front of him. "Next time, just take the car. I don’t care if you only go three houses down."

"I got it," Noel said, gently rubbing his thigh under the table. "I’ll be fine after I rest it a bit."

His father cut into the chicken, shaking his head. "You’re not made of steel, you know."

Noel didn’t answer. He just quietly reached for the potatoes, and his mom handed them over without a word.

The table filled with soft clinks and the quiet passing of dishes. Comforting in its normalcy.

The meal eased into motion, slow and familiar.

Noel took a bite of the rosemary chicken, the skin crisp, the meat falling apart tender.

The silence wasn’t awkward—it was the kind that wrapped around them like a worn blanket, shared and understood.

His dad reached for the gravy boat, glancing up as he poured. "So. Did she make you play cards again?"

Noel groaned. "Three rounds. I lost every time."

"She cheats," his mom said flatly, sipping her water. "I’ve told you both for years."

"She calls it luck," Noel replied, picking at his vegetables. "And somehow, she always ends up with three queens."

"That’s because she has three queens," his father said with a grin. "She’s marked them. You didn’t notice the little pink dot on the corner?"

Noel looked up. "Wait, seriously?"

His mom laughed under her breath. "You’re only just realizing that now?"

"I thought it was... decoration." He let out a tired laugh. "Wow. I got played."

"That’s Grandma," his dad said, tapping his fork twice on the plate before taking another bite. "Never underestimate a woman who’s lived through two wars and five recessions."

Noel shook his head, leaning back a little in his chair. "She packed me enough soup to survive a winter. I didn’t even argue."

"Smart," his mom said, reaching across the table to grab the bread. "You arguing with her is like yelling at the wind."

He watched her slice it carefully, the lines of her hands moving with the kind of tired precision that comes from long shifts and longer years.

There was something soothing about it—this quiet ballet of plates passed, food shared, the scent of warm bread and roast filling the room like something sacred.

"I think she just wanted company," Noel murmured.

They both looked up.

"She talks more when she’s lonely," he said quietly. "Even if it’s just nonsense—she fills the air so it won’t feel empty.

His mom set the bread down and nodded. "She misses your grandpa most in August."

A silence followed. Not heavy, but thoughtful.

"Did you stay in the same room?" his dad asked, trying to shift the mood gently.

"Yeah. The same old creaky bed with the dip in the middle. I thought it’d be weird after so long... but it wasn’t."

His mom offered a quiet smile. "Places like that hold pieces of you, even after you leave."

Noel looked down at his plate, voice softer. "Yeah... I felt that."

His dad leaned back in his chair, brushing crumbs from his fingers. "You did a good thing, Noel."

"I didn’t do much."

"You showed up," his mom said. "That’s more than most."

The words settled in the room like something firm and true.

Noel sat with them for a moment. Let them sink in.

Then, without much thought, he stood and began clearing the plates.

His mom blinked. "You don’t have to—"

"I know." He gathered the dishes anyway. "But I want to."

She nodded once, then stood beside him, grabbing the leftover pot of chicken.

His dad started wrapping the bread. No orders, no complaints—just movement in sync.

The kind of peace that doesn’t shout.

The kind that simply is.

And for the first time that day, Noel’s shoulders dropped—not from exhaustion, but ease.