By Sunshine Zéa Leeuwon

An obligation so deep it feels like part of your skin — it sinks into your bones like dust settling, inevitable but soft. The house holds you, a prison of memories.

You stare at the countertop, your fingers resting on the edge of an old mason jar, its surface sticky from whatever had been left inside for too long. The room feels smaller than it used to, suffocating under the weight of the dust coating the tops of cabinets, the windowsills, and the space beneath your fingernails. The house itself has become your prison. Its walls are intact, its roof still standing, but its unrelenting decay holds you in place.

You don’t look at your mother because if you do, you’ll see the same emptiness in her eyes that you’ve come to resent. There’s no love in this request, just the monotony of survival. You could leave here, you’ve thought about it countless times, but there’s something about this place that pulls you back. An obligation so deep that it feels like part of your skin — it sinks into your bones like the dust sinks into the floorboards, the way dust settles, inevitable but soft.

You pick up the jar, feeling the cool glass against your palm. Once, it held freshly canned peaches, picked under the summer sun. You had canned them yourself, your grandmother standing beside you at the sink, weathered hands guiding yours.

You’ll want to know how to do this someday, she’d said, voice soft but certain. You had hated the chore, the sticky sweetness that clung to everything. You had hated the way the kitchen grew unbearably hot from the boiling water, and how your fingers would wrinkle after plunging in jar after jar. But in this moment, you miss the way her hands were so sure of themselves. That steadiness has been gone for years.

The water runs cold and you rinse the jar. It clinks, hitting the side of the drying rack. The kitchen is silent now except for the steady hum of the fridge — worn, yellow, even older than you are. It stands in stark contrast to the Thanksgiving you spent here, when the house was a little fuller — your siblings around the table, your father carving the turkey with the same serrated knife he’d sharpened for over 20 years. It was a hollow holiday, one you’d returned to out of obligation rather than warmth. That year, your father had smiled, but it felt strained, a practiced expression that never reached his eyes — like he was trying to hold onto a version of the family that no longer existed.

You don’t come back enough, he’d said, the words carrying a quiet accusation.

You’d nodded, even though you knew it wasn’t true. You returned as often as you could bear.

Footsteps slow and deliberate, you leave the kitchen, moving in the direction of the living room, where the musty air is thick with the scent of old wood and forgotten memories. The carpet is worn, the edges frayed from years of neglect, and you can almost hear the sound of your mother’s vacuum cleaner, that old whirring beast that choked on its own dust more often than cleared it.

Your eyes fall on the piano, its keys yellowed with age. It hasn’t been played in years, but you remember those long afternoons sitting on the bench, your legs too short to reach the pedals, while your mother stood behind you, her voice sharp with impatience.

Again, from the top, she’d say as your young fingers fumbled over the notes. You hated that piano, hated playing, hated the way the music never sounded right, no matter how many hours you spent practicing. But it wasn’t about the music. It was about her. You wanted to make her proud, to earn her approval, but the more you played, the further away that approval seemed, merely a mirage in an endless desert.

It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when your mother’s presence felt like a comfort, her hands guiding yours over the keys with a gentle patience that seemed unbreakable. She used to laugh when you hit the wrong notes, reminding you that perfection wasn’t the goal. Somewhere along the way, that warmth vanished, replaced by a rigidity that seeped into every corner of the house. Maybe it was the gradual erosion of small disappointments — grades that weren’t high enough, decisions she never understood, dreams she couldn’t see a place for. Her criticism became sharper, her patience thinner, until those afternoons at the piano felt like trials rather than lessons.

You wondered if she saw herself in you — if your failures felt like a reflection of her own. The distance grew, and with it, the silence between you two. It’s a silence that still lingers, heavy as you stand in this room, wishing the old piano could bridge the gap that years of misunderstandings had carved between you. You stop in front of the piano now, resting a hand on its smooth surface. The old wood is cool beneath your fingers, but it feels hollow — a reminder that even the things meant to bring you together have become symbols of everything that’s fallen apart.

The lid remains unopened. It feels too heavy, not because of its weight, but because of the memories inside — the ones that press down onto your chest until you can barely breathe. It calls to you, but you turn away, toward the hallway, where the light grows ever dimmer and the air thickens like a dense fog of memories..

In the hallway, there’s an old coat rack, still standing, though it leans slightly to one side. A single coat hangs on it — your father’s, the same one he wore the day he left.

Family comes first, he used to say — words that felt like a promise.

But then he left, without warning, for reasons you were too young to understand — something about needing space, a break from the weight of everything. When he returned, it was as if a shadow had settled over him. The warmth that once filled the house seemed to disappear, replaced by a silence that seeped into every room. His presence became oppressive. Even when he stood right beside you, his absence lingered, a reminder of the time he chose to be away.

You reach out, your hand hovering just above the worn fabric of his coat, but you don’t touch it. Some things are better left alone.

You make your way upstairs, the wooden steps creaking beneath your weight. At the end of the hall is your childhood bedroom, the door slightly ajar. You haven’t stepped inside in years, though it’s been waiting for you, its untouched and forgotten insides beckoning your presence.

Inside, the room is just as you left it. The bed is neatly made, the quilt your grandmother sewed still folded at the foot. You cross the room to the dresser to brush your fingers against the faded wood. There’s a box on top, small and unassuming, but you know what’s inside. Letters. Dozens of them. Some are drafts that you never found the courage to send, and others are to yourself— scribbled confessions and apologies meant for their eyes but kept hidden in this box. You wrote them in moments when your heart felt too heavy, when you thought that maybe, just maybe, the right words could fix everything left broken. But in the end, the words stayed sealed inside, too raw to share, too fragile to risk rejection. It seemed safer to let them fade in the dark, where no one could judge the feelings that spilled out.

You open the box now, pulling out one letter, the paper yellowed and fragile. The words are smudged, but you remember what you wrote: I’m sorry I’m not what you wanted me to be. You were sixteen when you wrote that, sitting at this very desk, staring out the window at a world that felt just out of reach. Back then, you thought the apology might close the gap between you and your parents, might soften their eyes when they looked at you. But deep down, you knew even then that some ravines can’t be crossed, no matter how many words you pour into them.

The letter goes back in the box. You close it carefully, the lid soft against the wood. The room seems to shrink around you, the air thick with everything left unsaid. You linger by the window, watching the light fade behind the trees, shadows stretching across the floor. It’s quieter here than you remember, but the silence wraps around you, familiar in its embrace.

The house holds you, but not the way a home would. It binds you, invisible threads woven through years of expectation, duty, and the quiet pull of obligation. There is no warmth here — not anymore — but still, you return. It’s not because you want to, but because something deeper compels you.

Family returns, even when there’s nothing left to return to. ■