I didn’t want to get out of the imaginary world created by my book, but the train pulled into my station and I was left with little choice. The steady murmur of people talking, rushing to wherever they needed to be, greeting their loved ones and saying their goodbyes immediately started getting to me, but I was way too tired to have another panic attack.

The world around me was now completely blocked out, as I fought my way through the bowels of public transportation before I finally got where I needed to be. My parents’ house. I’d spent all my childhood there, and I walked down this very path every month for all of my years at uni, but this time it felt different.

It still felt like coming home, but it didn’t feel like the warm haven that it had been before. It felt more like another hospital, another place where I’d be fixed up before being tossed out there again. But it was still home, and as I dragged myself over to the front door, I stuck the key in the lock and immediately heard rushing noises from inside, someone stomping down the stairs, cutlery clanking as my parents scrambled to meet me at the door.

I opened the door and was met with two elated faces. They were delighted to see me more than anyone ever would be, but I didn’t have it left in me to respond in kind. I merely fell forward to hug them both, drinking the moment in. I was finally home. Nothing could hurt me anymore.

“Your old room is still yours, love. Why don’t you settle in and then come down for a cup of tea?” my mother said.

“Mmhmmm, alright,” I mumbled and started dragging myself up the stairs. While I did so, I overheard them talking.

“Do you think something’s wrong with her?” mother asked father, her voice revealing uneasiness and worry.

“I think she’s just tired,” he said, always the calm one. “She’s just had an operation, for God’s sake, and those are never easy. Let her rest.”

If only they knew.

I opened the door to my old room, and was met with memories. The deep red walls, painted such in my teenage years, where my father tried to compensate for the fact that he’d only had a daughter, and introduced me to football. The desk that once fit all the material I could ever need to study, before I went to university and it got exponentially harder. My tiny old bed, wedged in between the wall and the bookshelf. Memories left over from a time where going down to London was something too complicated to understand.

Taking my coat off, I sat down on the bed, and enjoyed my first dash of silence for days. I closed my eyes and took the moment in, and forbade myself to think. Everything was alright again. Aaron didn’t matter. I wasn’t alone. I was home. And when I opened my eyes, the room was much darker than I remembered, the very cold cup of tea was on my desk, and I could feel the smell of stew being prepared.

Great, more unhealthy sleep. Just what I needed. I straightened myself up and changed into comfortable clothes, still feeling extremely groggy from my impromptu nap. After a stretch, I went back down the stairs, tea in hand.

“Look who’s awake,” my father said as I entered the kitchen.

“Sorry about that,” I said. “You know how it is with travel. I didn’t get a wink of sleep in on the train.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. Just winding you up, that’s all,” he said. “Am I not allowed to? Can I be happy that my daughter’s home?”

“Of course you can,” I said. It was weird seeing him by the stove, but the food didn’t smell burnt, so he must’ve been doing something right. “You’re cooking? Where’s mum?”

“Just went to the shop,” he said. “We figured we’d have you here for a few days, so we figured we’d resupply somewhat. She shouldn’t be too long. Are you feeling any better?”

“Not really, no. I slept in probably the least comfortable position possible,” I said. “Maybe the tea will help.”

“Tea always helps,” he said.

I admired his simple approach to life. For him, there were no master plans. There was the week and there was the weekend, there was his wife and there was myself. I suppose that came to him with age. Once he’d settled down, there really was no reason to worry about anything grand that might happen, and he really made the most of each one of his days. Maybe, one day, that would be me.

Now rested, my mind once again turned to the madness of Aaron. “Dad, about my operations. What did the doctors ever tell you about my extreme reactions?”

He turned around and frowned. “Not much. They were about as mystified to them as we still are, and we were only given instruction to try and minimise the damage as much as possible. We couldn’t stop taking you down, because you would’ve died. In fact, you were lucky not to when you had the operations when you were a child.”

“I did. Once,” I laughed.

“Don’t ever remind me of that,” he said. “I thought I’d lost you. You are all my life amounts to. Please don’t joke about those things.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Good. Why are you asking? Did something new happen this time?” he asked.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” I said. “Something I thought was impossible.”

“What’s impossible?” my mother shouted from the hallway.

“Good, you’re here,” father said. “Just in time for dinner.”

We sat down around the table, the stew between us, its smell taking me away from my worries for a brief moment. We ate in silence, my parents anxious to hear my story, but I was too hungry to care. When we’d finished what we had, I took a moment to compose myself, and felt myself ready to tell the story.

“Can we hear what happened now?” mother said.

“Yes. But I think you might want a drink,” I said, and went over to the fridge to find one of the shelves stacked with beer. Of course they had a beer shelf. The North was still the North, after all.

Taking three bottles out, I opened them all and passed them around, taking a long chug before starting my story.