He omns me

Pierre had never imagined that returning home could be so difficult. After seven long years spent searching for answers in a foreign country, far from everything he knew, he now stood in front of the door of his mother's house. His heart was beating faster than usual.

It wasn't just the excitement of coming home, but the feeling that everything would change from that moment on. He had thought his mother had been waiting for him, that she would have prepared him for a new life, but nothing was more uncertain. The city streets seemed both familiar and strange. The neighborhood had changed, the buildings taller, the stores different. But his mother's house had remained unchanged.

It was still there, on the street he had walked along as a teenager, the same white door, the same worn cobblestone driveway, like a reminder of everything he had left behind. He had taken an overnight flight, tired and exhausted by his endless search.

He hadn't said anything to his mother, mentioned nothing in her letters. He had kept silent for years, but now he could no longer.

This return wasn't just that of a son reunited with his mother, but of a man who had grown up too fast, who had learned too many things he should never have known. But he wasn't prepared for what awaited him behind that door. He took a deep breath, building up courage, then rang the doorbell. The chime echoed through the fresh morning air, an almost surreal echo.

A few seconds passed, and finally, the door slowly opened. He saw first a familiar face, then wide eyes filled with surprise and confusion.

"Pierre...?" His mother's voice was full of emotion, surprise, and gentle disbelief.

"Is that... you?" He nodded, a deep tenderness filling him. She was a mother, after all.

The woman who had carried him for nine months, who had watched over him throughout his childhood. But deep down, he knew that this return wouldn't be as simple as finding a home. His past, his father, and above all, that silent promise he'd made to himself-to never go back to the way he'd been-weighed heavily on his shoulders.

"I'm home," he replied, his voice soft, almost timid. But there was a flicker of determination in his eyes. He hadn't just left abroad to return to his mother.

There was another purpose, another weight he carried with him. His mother looked at him, her mouth opening and closing as if to say something, but the words seemed to escape her. Then, finally, she threw herself into his arms, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Oh my God, Pierre... I had no idea you would come back!" she whispered between sobs. "I missed you so much

." Pierre hugged his mother, but in his heart, a pang of unease settled. He had traveled a long way to return to this precise moment, but he knew everything had changed. He was no longer the naive young man who had left, but a man marked by the cruel truth he had discovered abroad.

A man who would have to face a destiny he had not chosen, but which seemed inevitable.

Pierre entered the house, childhood memories floating around him, but his mind remained agitated. His mother, still drying her tears, got up to prepare something to eat. Pierre followed her with his eyes for a moment, but something in the air made him turn his head.

A figure appeared in the living room doorway: his stepfather. Claude, his stepfather, stood there, arms crossed, an unreadable expression on his face. Pierre recognized him immediately, but the welcome he received wasn't the one he expected. Claude was an imposing man, with a broad build and hard features. His eyes were cold and distant, as if he never truly saw Pierre as a son. That look, the one that had always unsettled him, made him feel like a stranger in his own home again.

"Ah, you're home after all," Claude said, his voice as cold as ice. He turned to Pierre's mother, who hadn't yet noticed the rising tension.

"Are you happy, then?" Pierre felt a palpable discomfort fill the room. It wasn't that he didn't like his stepfather. No, it was something else, something he'd always felt but could never really name. A kind of silent rejection that weighed on him every time they crossed paths.

"Yes, I'm... I'm happy to be back," Pierre said, his voice a little shaky, though he tried to remain calm. Claude still raised an eyebrow, his gaze fixed on Pierre with a coldness that was hard to ignore.

"Well, don't think everything's going to be the same as before. You're back, that's good. But things change. We'll see how you adapt.

" Pierre frowned. He didn't like the way his stepfather talked about this

"adjustment," as if something even bigger awaited them. But he kept it to himself. He was back in his mother's house, where he thought he could find some comfort, but the atmosphere wasn't what he'd hoped for.

"Do you want me to help you with your things?" Claude asked casually.

"No, it's fine," Pierre replied, feeling his discomfort rising. But as Claude headed into the living room to settle in, an unease intensified in the air. Pierre turned to his mother, who seemed to be fidgeting in the kitchen.

He felt he should ask questions, but something in his stomach told him that maybe now wasn't the time. Perhaps his father, or rather his stepfather, had expectations he didn't yet understand.

It wasn't the first time he'd felt Claude was distancing himself from him, but today the atmosphere seemed even more tense. "I... I'm going to my room

," Pierre said in a lower voice, before heading towards the stairs, his heart beating a little faster. He needed to think, to understand why this visit felt so... out of place.

But this was only the beginning. Soon, his father would tell him something that would upend everything he thought he knew. Pierre went up to his room, a place that, while familiar, now felt a little foreign. He sat on the bed, observing the dust that had accumulated on his belongings. After a long moment of tidying up his few suitcases and suitcases, he let out a sigh.

He wasn't there for that; he had a million questions swirling around in his head, but the atmosphere at home wasn't conducive to a quiet conversation.