Homesick: A Taste Of Home

Natasha and Sheena walked in, shoes scuffing the hardwood, jackets half-shrugged off. House felt empty now that the girl was back on campus. They didn’t say much—just a quick squeeze of hands, a tired little smile. Then the bell cut through the quiet like a slap. Spencer stood on the porch, shoulders curled in, textbook hugged to her chest. The wives let her in. She said she felt sick, didn’t know why. They asked about fever, appetite, sleep. Nothing sounded wrong. They offered to check her over anyway. Spencer peeled off her sweater, laid on the kitchen table, and the wives’ hands moved over her ribs, her stomach, her throat—efficient, careful, finding nothing. The talk stretched. One question led to another. Turned out the girl was homesick. The wives lit the stove, put soup in front of her. They wrapped her in a fleece throw still warm from the dryer, tucked her between them on the couch, let her rest her head on their shoulders. Fingers stroked her hair, palms rubbed her back. Spencer’s sighs got quieter. But her eyes stayed restless, like there was one itch they hadn’t scratched. After a long pause she admitted her stepmom used to be physical—very physical. Natasha and Sheena traded a look, slow, charged. They told her they knew how to help with that, too. Clothes started coming off in deliberate silence, and the air got thicker, heavy with heat and the promise of a cure that went deeper than soup or blankets.