It's been a year now since Mom came home.

I'm seventeen. I got my driver's license. Ethan is thirteen and taller than me, which is very annoying. Dad comes for dinner on Wednesdays, and he and Mom are polite to each other in a way that's almost friendly.

The chore list on our fridge is different now. Mom made it. Everyone's name is on it, including hers. Ethan's job is the trash. Mine is the dishes. Mom's is cooking, because she's actually good at it.

The beach photo is back on the mantel. Mom added another one next to it: the three of us at the recital, all squashed together in one row.

Sometimes I think about Brittany. Not angrily, anymore. Mostly I just think she made one big mistake.

She thought a house belongs to whoever is loudest about it. Whoever puts up the signs and makes the rules and films it for the internet.

But that's not what a house is.

A house belongs to the people who built the cabinets and played the piano and sewed the quilt. To the people who keep it safe when nobody's watching. To the people who'll fly halfway around the world the minute you need them.

Mom taught me that. She didn't even have to say it.

She just came home.