The moment I stepped into the living room with my parents on either side of me—each holding an elbow like I might crumble into dust if they let go—I realized going home was both a blessing and a slow, excruciating punishment.
"Shoes off, now," Mom ordered the second we crossed the threshold. "And don't touch anything. Germs."
"I literally survived a psychic detonation underground," I mumbled, already kicking off my sneakers. "I think I can handle a doorknob."
Dad nodded solemnly, as if agreeing with Mom. "Still. Better safe than sorry. You're fragile."
"I'm not fragile, I'm recovering."
"Exactly," Mom chimed in. "Which means no psychic training, no sudden movement, and absolutely no stress. You are to stay in bed, eat fruit, and do nothing. Doctor's orders."
"I don't remember our family doctor ever saying that."
"She didn't," Mom said sweetly. "I did."
And that was how my exile began.
⸻
