The flight home from Bangkok dragged on forever, but the hug from my mom at Riverside Airport made it worth it. She smelled like rosemary oil, but there was something else too—worry. Driving through Millbrook, I noticed how small the streets looked, how tired the houses seemed, as if time had pressed down on the whole town. She filled the silence with chatter about her book club and the neighbors, carefully avoiding the shadows under her eyes.
When we pulled into the driveway, she squeezed my arm. “I made your favorite. Potato soup with—”
“Extra thyme,” I said, smiling.
But the smile didn’t last. The kitchen was a mess: dishes stacked everywhere, boxes shoved on the sill, and the faucet dripping weakly.
“How long has it been like this?” I asked.
She stared at the floor. “A few weeks.”
I crouched by the sink. The plumbing looked older than me. “Why didn’t you call a plumber?”
“I… forgot.”
The next morning, I hauled out my dad’s old toolbox. It smelled of oil and rust and memories. I wedged myself beneath the sink, flashlight clamped between my teeth. That’s when she came running in, pale and shaking.
“STOP! Don’t touch it. Please!”
I jolted, smacking my head. “Mom! It’s just a clog. I can fix it.”
Her tone was sharp, panicked. “No. Leave it. A professional will handle it.”
But no plumber ever came. For two weeks we washed dishes in the bathtub. She jumped whenever I moved toward the kitchen and checked the locks three times every night. She insisted she was fine, but the air in the house felt heavy.
Finally, when she went grocery shopping, I made up my mind. I slid under the sink and loosened the U-bend. Grit spilled out, and then my fingers brushed something foreign. I pulled out a sealed, waterproof bundle. Inside were thick rolls of hundred-dollar bills—tens of thousands—and a cheap flip phone.
The front door slammed.
“Jeremy?”
She walked in, groceries spilling, her face crumpling as she saw what I held. “Oh God. Why did you have to find it?”
I held up the bundle. “What is this? Whose money?”
Her voice broke. “I’ve lied to you your whole life. You have a brother.”
My mind froze.
“I had him at seventeen. His name is Gerard. I raised him until he was five, then gave him up. I was young and scared. I never told your father. Until six months ago.” She swallowed. “He found me. At first I was glad. But then he started asking for money. Things disappeared—your dad’s watch, my ring. Last month he showed up panicked, handed me this, told me to hide it. Said people might come. Then he vanished.”
“What people?”
She said nothing.
I powered on the flip phone. Three percent battery. The log showed dozens of strange numbers, but one saved contact: G. I dialed it.
“Yeah?” a rough voice answered.
“Is this Gerard? I’m Jeremy. Lisa’s son.”
A pause. Then, softer: “Jeremy… you’re my little brother.”
We met the next day at Murphy’s Diner. When he walked in, it was like staring into a weathered reflection of myself—same hair, same jawline, but harder. He slid into the booth. “You look like her.”
“You look like me,” I said.
He gave a short laugh, then pulled a badge from his jacket.
“I’m a cop. Undercover.”
The words stunned me.
“I infiltrated a crew—drugs, laundering. When they got suspicious, I had to disappear. The money is evidence and some savings. I asked Mom to hide it because a search was too risky. I stole things to keep my cover. I planned to return them. I kept her in the dark to protect her. The case wrapped last week—arrests made. I was waiting to be sure.”
I shook my head. “She stuffed it in the sink. We’ve been bathing dishes for weeks.”
His face darkened with guilt. “I’ll fix it. And I’ll tell her everything.”
That night, the three of us sat at the kitchen table. Gerard told his story again, slower. Mom cried—not just from fear, but relief after carrying the secret so long.
“I’m sorry I gave you up,” she whispered.
Gerard took her hand. “You did what you had to. And so did I.”
Then he crouched beneath the sink, replaced the pipe, and tightened it. For the first time in weeks, water gushed strong and clean. We washed dishes together, like a family of three that had finally been made whole.
It struck me then: secrets are like mold. They grow in darkness, feeding on silence, until they force their way out.
Now Gerard and I meet every Sunday for coffee. He has stories that make my travel adventures look tame. Last week he grinned. “Maybe you show me how to make one of those travel videos. I’ve got some tales worth sharing.”
I raised my cup. “To new beginnings.”
“And to old recipes,” he added, clinking mugs.
From the kitchen came Mom’s voice: “Boys! Dinner!”
The smell of potato soup filled the house—extra thyme, three bowls waiting. Some things, I realized, are always worth coming home for.