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The ride back felt longer.
I didn’t trust it.

Anxiety told my little mind
something would go wrong.

Same dingy Greyhound bus.
Same ragged seats.
Same tired engine
dragging us north out of Missouri.

But something had shifted.

I kept thinking about my room,
my toys lined up where I left them,
friends I hadn’t seen in months
like they might’ve forgotten me.

School waiting
like a slow sentence
nobody could outrun.

Out the window—
the land started changing.

Less sky.
More signs.

Gas stations,
faded billboards,
towns stacked close together
like they needed each other—
Ankeny, Altoona.

I sat up straighter
when things started
to feel familiar again.

A building I’d seen before.
A road that bent the right way.

That old Raccoon River
by Tech High School.

Des Moines
getting closer.
Ready for my wild footsteps
and feral heart.

My brother said,
“I hope Mom’s there.”

I just nodded
and said,
“She will be.”

The bus slowed.

Air brakes sighed
like it had done its job
and didn’t care what came next.

People stood up too early,
grabbing bags,
like getting off first
meant something.

I stayed seated
a second longer.

Just in case.

Then I stepped off
into that familiar heat.
That diesel smell
was a friend this time around.

And there it was—
her beige Nova
sitting in the parking lot.

And then I saw Mom—
dimly through the dirty window,
standing in that quilted
rose-colored jacket,
a Virginia Slim dangling
between her fingers.

My heart settled.