Chapter 27

Erika's pov:

Insecurity constantly lingered over my head like a cloud ready to rain. Questions flooded my inhabitable mind.

Would they like me? Would Cat stop liking me if they didn't? Why did I care?

The closer we got to Cat's parents' house, the tighter the knot in my stomach grew. I sat in the passenger seat—Cat had finally given in a few days ago and let me stop using the car seat after much debate—and stared out at the passing suburban streets, each one lined with neat lawns and houses painted in soft, welcoming colors. It was picture-perfect, like something out of a postcard, and somehow that made me more nervous.

"Almost there," Cat said softly, her eyes flicking to me with a small, encouraging smile. She'd been quieter than usual since we'd entered her hometown, her gaze lingering on familiar landmarks with a mixture of nostalgia and something else I couldn't quite name. Was it dread?

I swallowed, forcing a smile back. "Great," I managed, my voice a bit too high. I cleared my throat.

"I called Mom when we were about an hour out. She's excited, and I'm sure Dad's around somewhere." She tried to keep her tone light, but I could sense a tension whenever she mentioned her father. I wondered what lay beneath that careful calm. Something in her posture, the set of her jaw, told me she wasn't entirely at ease.

"Excited," I echoed, my heart beating faster. I wondered if her parents understood what had happened—about the adoption, about me becoming Erika Barlowe. Cat had explained that they knew, of course, but knowing facts and truly accepting them were two different things. A small part of me wanted them to accept me, to see me as their granddaughter. This wasn't normal though. A large part of me accepted that they might shun me.

The car turned onto a quiet street lined with well-tended gardens and tall, leafy trees providing dappled shade. The houses were spaced comfortably apart, privacy and neighborly warmth balanced in perfect measure. Cat slowed down, checking the numbers on the mailboxes, until she found the one she was looking for.

"There," she said under her breath, pulling into a driveway in front of a tidy one-story home with a pale-yellow exterior and white trim. The lawn was manicured, flowerbeds bursting with autumn blooms. A wind chime tinkled softly by the porch. The place looked welcoming and warm—very much a home. It reminds me of american movies I watched when I was studying english.

There was one where a picturesque family waved from their porch, a dog bounding across the lawn, the sun shining on an impossibly neat driveway. I used to watch it late at night, carefully working through every line of dialogue while learning English. The cozy image stuck with me.

Cat turned off the engine and sighed quietly, running a hand through her hair. "Ready?" she asked, forcing a brighter high pitched-tone, as if I was a kid going to her first class.

I mustered all the courage I could and nodded.

"Honey what's wrong?" Cat asked, putting a piece of hair behind my ear. Her gentle touch always soothed me, even when I didn't want it to. Now it was welcomed, craved, even begged for.

Against every muscle in my body I moved my head away, "Nothing". Suddenly I was angry for no reason. Irritated like a girl who just got her doll taken.

"Hey, no reason to get sassy with me." Cat firmly told me.

"Sorry." I replied like it was an obligation, not a genuine apology.

Cat's face softened and a gentle hum was let out, "Guess my wittle baby just needs a nap." She teased in a baby voice.

Instead of smiling like I usually did, my nerves made me remain annoyed at her infantilization of me. She didn't press it any further, sensing my irritable mood.

We stepped out of the car, the California sun warm on my skin, and I was suddenly grateful I'd worn a light sweater. Cat took my hand but before I could protest we and before we even reached the front door, it opened, and a woman emerged—a woman who was undeniably Cat's mother. She had the same kind of gentle warmth in her eyes that Cat did, the same curve to her smile.

"Catherine!" she called, hurrying down the steps and pulling Cat into a hug. Cat accepted it, hugging her mother back with what looked like genuine affection. "You're home!"

"Hi, Mom," Cat said quietly, her voice muffled by her mother's shoulder. Then Cat stepped back and reached for my hand, pulling me slightly forward. "Mom, this is Erika."

Cat's mother turned to me, her smile broadening. "Erika! Honey it's so nice to meet you," she said, voice bright and welcoming. She looked me up and down, surprisingly not in a judgmental way, but as if trying to take me in, completely and fully. Then, to my surprise, she opened her arms.

I hesitated only a moment before I stepped into her embrace, feeling a gentle, I guess grandmotherly softness. It eased some of my worries. She smelled like lavender and laundry soap, never smelt before yet familiar somehow.

"You two made good time," she said, releasing me and glancing at Cat. "Your father's inside. He's watching the news, I think. You know how he is."

Cat's smile tightened slightly. "Yeah, I know."

I caught the flicker of tension in Cat's eyes again. There was something about her father that put her on edge. Was he strict? Overbearing? Unwelcoming? I braced myself as we followed Cat's mother.

Inside, it was just as neat and homey as the outside suggested. Soft carpeting, family photos on the walls, a vase of fresh flowers on a side table. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon. As we stepped into the living room, I heard the low drone of a TV announcer. Cat's mother led us in, and there he was: Cat's father, seated in an armchair, remote in hand, watching some news segment about local weather patterns.

He looked up when we entered, his eyes taking a moment to register Cat, then flicking to me. He stood up, straightening his sweater vest. He had Cat's eyes, I realized suddenly, though his gaze was more guarded.

"Dad," Cat said, her tone polite but clipped. "This is Erika."

Her father nodded, stepping forward. "Hello, Erika," he said, his voice lower and more reserved than his wife's. "Welcome."

"Thank you," I replied, feeling a jolt of nerves. Did I call him Grandpa? Grandma? Cat hadn't really given me instructions. "Thank you for having me."

"Of course," he said simply, no warmth, no immediate sign of disapproval, but also no enthusiasm. He turned his attention back to Cat. "You two had a safe trip, I trust?"

Cat nodded. "Yes, no problems on the road." Her shoulders were a bit rigid, and I noticed her father didn't hug her, didn't move closer. There was a subtle distance between them, a quiet tension crackling in the background.

Cat's mother cleared her throat and plastered a smile on her face, obviously sensing the awkwardness. "Let's sit down. I made some lemonade, and we have snacks. Erika, dear, come this way." She gestured for me to follow her into the kitchen.

The snacks reminded me of Cat. She always made a snack for every occasion.

I cast a glance at Cat, who gave me a reassuring nod, before following her mother down a short hallway into a bright, airy kitchen. She pulled out a chair at the small kitchen table and set a glass of lemonade before me, along with a plate of sugar cookies.

"Just something sweet after a long drive," she said warmly, taking a seat beside me.

"Thank you," I said, touched by her thoughtfulness. The cookies looked homemade, their edges slightly uneven and endearing. I took a small bite, the sugary taste calming my frazzled nerves, just like Cat's.

Cat and her father came in a moment later, Cat taking the seat next to me and her father seating himself across from us, arms folded. The silence was thick.

"So," Cat's mother began, her voice cheerful and determined. "You two must be tired. How long was the drive?"

"A couple days," Cat answered, sipping her lemonade. "We stopped a few times, got some snacks, took some pictures." She smiled at me, and I felt a surge of gratitude for that smile, that small connection between us.

"Oh, pictures?" her eyes lit up. "I'd love to see them!"

I blushed, remembering how embarrassed I was at the gas station when Cat took a bunch of photos. "They're just a few random ones," I said quietly. "Nothing special."

Cat reached over and patted my knee. "They're special to me."

Her father gave a noncommittal grunt, sipping his lemonade. "Catherine always loved taking pictures," he said flatly. "A shame she never pursued photography more seriously."

Cat stiffened slightly, and Grandma cleared her throat, shooting her husband a quick look. "Now, dear, Cat has done a lot of wonderful things. Not everyone needs to be a professional at everything they enjoy."

What kind of parent want something like a photographer instead of a neurologist? Odd.

The tension crackled again, and I wondered if this was the dynamic Cat had grown up with: her father making these quiet, barbed comments, her mother deflecting them, Cat trying not to react.

I tried to steer the conversation away from this landmine. "The drive really was nice," I offered. "We listened to music, and Cat pointed out landmarks. I've never been to California."

"Is that so?" Cat's mother said with genuine interest. "Well, we'll have to show you around. Maybe take a trip to the coastline, if we have time."

"That sounds great," I said, feeling a bit lighter. "I'd love that."

Her father eyed me, and I felt his gaze like a weight. "So, you're in school, correct?" he asked curtly. "Catherine mentioned something about you being incredibly smart?"

I swallowed. "Um, I'm doing well academically, yes, but I'm trying hard. I want to do well, make Cat—make Mommy—proud." The word "Mommy" slipped out naturally, and I blushed, wondering if that sounded odd to them, especially given my age and our unusual situation.

Cat's mother smiled fondly. "That's wonderful, dear. We're happy that you're doing so well." She glanced at Cat, pride shining in her eyes. "I'm sure Catherine is proud of you too."

"Of course I am," Cat said softly, reaching over to squeeze my hand under the table. I smiled at her, reassured by the contact.

Her father, however, just nodded, unsmiling. "Hard work is important," he said. "I hope you understand the responsibilities you've taken on."

I wasn't sure what he meant by that—responsibilities? Did he mean the adoption, being part of this family? Or just life in general? Before I could ask, Cat's mom changed the subject again, describing some local restaurants and attractions we might visit.

We spent the next hour in a delicate dance of conversation. Cat's mother tried to keep the mood light, asking me about my interests, my favorite classes, and what I wanted to see in California. Cat chimed in with little anecdotes about her childhood—though I noticed she never went too deep into personal stories, giving only surface-level details. Her father listened more than he spoke, occasionally asking pointed questions that I struggled to answer without feeling judged.

As lunchtime approached, Cat's mom rose to prepare a simple meal: sandwiches and a garden salad. Cat insisted on helping, leaving me alone at the table with her father. The silence stretched, awkward and heavy, until I forced myself to say something.

"Thank you for having me here," I ventured softly, meeting his gaze briefly before looking down at my hands. "It means a lot."

There was a pause, then he sighed. "Catherine wants this, so I support it," he said at last, not quite meeting my eyes. "I'm sure you're a fine young woman."

Somehow, that made my chest tighten. It sounded more like a reluctant acceptance than a warm welcome. But I'd take what I could get.

Cat and her mom returned with lunch, and we ate in relative peace. Afterward, Cat turned to me with a grin. "Feel like heading out for a drive? We could pick up some things from the grocery store, show you a bit of the town."

I nodded enthusiastically. I needed some air. The house was lovely, but the tension with her father was suffocating. "That sounds great."

Cat's mom beamed. "Perfect. We'll have dinner ready by seven. Erika, would you like to help me cook later?"

My heart warmed at the invitation. "Yes, I'd love to help." The parallels between her and Cat were uncanny.

Before we left, Cat pulled out her phone again. "Wait, I want a picture of Erika with Mom," she said, ushering me and her together in front of a framed painting on the living room wall.

I blushed, my cheeks warming. "Cat, please..."

"Shush, you look adorable. Smile," Cat teased, snapping a few photos before I could protest further. Her mom just laughed, clearly amused by my shyness.

Cat insisted on one more photo: me with her father. He didn't object, but he didn't look thrilled. He stood stiffly beside me, and I managed a small smile as Cat clicked away, trying to capture some semblance of warmth on film.

Once the photos were taken, we said our temporary goodbyes, promising to return soon. I followed Cat back to the car, relieved to breathe the fresh outdoor air again. As we settled into our seats—me still strapped into the car seat (Cat had insisted after all, even though her parents might think it odd)—I caught her father watching from the window, arms crossed.

Cat started the engine and pulled out of the driveway, the tension slowly dissolving as we left the street. The scenic route she took us through was dotted with palm trees and gently rolling hills. I admired the landscape, impressed by how different it was from the environment I was used to.

"So," I said quietly, once we were a few blocks away. "Are you okay?"

Cat glanced at me in the rearview mirror, offering a reassuring smile. "I'm fine, sweetie. Don't worry about me."

I frowned, not entirely convinced. But I decided not to press the issue. Instead, I focused on the scenery and the promise of a new start that lay ahead of us. We were here to celebrate Thanksgiving with her family, and I wanted to make it work. I wanted to be good—good enough that Cat would never regret adopting me.

At a stop sign, Cat turned back to me. "Did you feel comfortable with my mom and dad?"

I hesitated. "Your mom is great. She's so nice and welcoming," I said carefully. "Your dad is... quieter." I paused for a second, "But what do I call them?"

Cat chuckled, "Just grandma or grandpa, or anything you want."

I just nodded with a smile.

We pulled into a small gas station, and Cat parked beside a pump. "I want to stretch my legs," she said, turning the engine off. "And maybe get a picture or two. I know it's silly, but I like capturing these moments."

I rolled my eyes good-naturedly. "You and your pictures," I teased, unfastening my seatbelt this time. Cat didn't protest; maybe she sensed I needed a brief reprieve from the babyish treatment. Or maybe she thought it was safe enough here at a quiet station.

We stepped out, and Cat came around to stand beside me. She gently placed her hands on my shoulders and turned me toward a background of palm trees. "Just one photo," she said.

I blushed, feeling self-conscious again. The memory of her father's stoic eyes still lingered in my mind, making me wonder what he'd think of all this. But Cat's enthusiasm was hard to resist. I forced a small smile.

"There, perfect," Cat said, snapping the picture. "I'm saving all these in a special album, you know."

"Of me blushing and looking awkward?" I joked, fiddling with the hem of my shirt.

Cat grinned. "Of you being you. Don't be embarrassed. You're adorable." Her words made me blush even more, and I playfully nudged her arm.

We went inside the small convenience store attached to the gas station, the cool air conditioning a welcome relief from the midday warmth. Cat let me pick out some snacks—chips, a candy bar, and a bottle of iced tea—and she got a coffee and a bag of trail mix for herself.

As we headed back to the car, I asked, "What's your family's Thanksgiving tradition like? I mean, do you do anything special?"

Cat shrugged, taking a moment to consider. "It's usually pretty low-key. Just a nice dinner, some football on TV, and maybe a walk afterward. We used to do more when I was little, but as we all grew older, it became simpler."

I nodded, imagining a relaxed family gathering. It sounded nice, yet something about the tension between Cat and her father made me think it might not be as relaxing as I hoped.

We got back on the road, snacking quietly. Cat told me about a few places she wanted to show me—maybe a local bookstore she loved in her childhood or a scenic overlook. The conversation flowed easier now, the earlier stiffness from meeting her parents beginning to fade.

After another hour of driving, Cat spotted a sign for a famous roadside landmark—a giant fiberglass statue of a bear wearing a cowboy hat. "I have to stop," she said excitedly, pulling off the highway. "This is too funny to pass up."

I groaned playfully, but there was a smile on my face. "Cat, really?"

"Come on, lovebug," she said, "just a quick photo." She reached back and patted my knee. "Please."

I sighed, but it was hard to resist her enthusiasm. "Fine," I said, trying to sound put-upon, but failing as a grin crept onto my face.

We parked near the odd statue, and Cat quickly hopped out, coming around to my side and opening my door. She helped me out—again treating me with that gentle care that was so comforting yet so infantilizing. At least she wasn't making me hold her hand or anything.

She posed me in front of the giant bear, snapping several photos while I tried to keep a neutral expression. The absurdity of the statue and the situation finally got to me, and I started giggling.

"There's that laugh," Cat said, snapping a final picture. "I love when you laugh like that."

I blushed, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "It's just so silly," I said. "You're going to have a million embarrassing pictures of me by the end of this trip."

"Not embarrassing. Endearing," Cat corrected, her eyes shining with genuine affection.

I looked up at her, feeling a warmth in my chest that had nothing to do with the California sun. It was at that moment I realized that no matter what happened with her parents—no matter what her father thought of me—Cat wasn't going to stop caring about me. The thought reassured me more than I could express.

We climbed back into the car—me back in the car seat at Cat's insistence. I didn't fight it this time, just rolled my eyes a bit but let her buckle me in. The road stretched out ahead, and Cat turned on some music, a playlist of old songs that I suspected she'd grown up with. We sang softly along, sharing smiles in the rearview mirror.

"Tell me more about your childhood," I said during a lull in the music, still curious about Cat's past. "You must have some fun stories."

Cat hesitated, her shoulders stiffening slightly. "It was quiet," she said at last, keeping her eyes on the road. "I studied a lot, kept to myself. I guess I was a serious child."

I tried to imagine a smaller, younger Cat. "No best friends or favorite hangouts?"

Cat forced a small smile. "I had friends, sure. But nothing too wild. I was always focused on my future—getting good grades, impressing my parents." Her voice faltered slightly, and I noticed her gripping the wheel tighter.

I decided to let it drop, not wanting to poke at something that seemed painful. Instead, I looked out at the passing scenery—rolling hills and scattered oak trees, telephone poles stretching into the horizon.

Eventually, we pulled off at another gas station for a brief restroom break, and Cat snapped another picture of me by the vending machines. I covered my face, groaning, "You're relentless."

She just laughed, patting my head. "I'm just capturing memories."

Back on the road, time passed in a gentle rhythm—music, quiet conversation, and the hum of tires on asphalt. Each stop we made, Cat found a way to document the moment. Sometimes I grumbled, feeling like a child forced into silly poses, but a small part of me was secretly grateful. These were new experiences—traveling, meeting new people, being part of a family—and I wanted to remember them too.

As the afternoon wore on, I started feeling sleepy, my eyelids growing heavy. The car seat, as much as I hated to admit it, was kind of comfortable for a nap. Cat lowered the volume of the music, as if sensing my fatigue.

"Rest if you want, lovebug," she said softly. "We'll get to my parents' place by early evening."

I nodded, leaning my head against the cushioned headrest. The plush sides of the car seat made it easy to drift off. In my half-asleep state, I thought about Cat's parents—her mother's kindness, her father's distant gaze—and I wondered how Thanksgiving would go. Would we all sit around a big table, eating turkey and laughing? Or would the tension simmer beneath the surface, making everything taste a little bit bitter?

At least Cat was here, and she wanted me here too. That was enough to keep me going.

I dozed off for a while, waking only when Cat gently shook my shoulder. "We're almost there," she said quietly. I rubbed my eyes, looking out to see the neighborhood from that morning reappearing.

"We're back early?" I asked, my voice groggy.

Cat smiled, "Yes, we just took a short drive to get some groceries and see the local sights. I thought maybe it would be best if we got back and helped Mom finish dinner."

I nodded, my heart fluttering with nerves again. Meeting her parents was one thing; living with them for a holiday break, seeing the daily routines, was another. But I steeled myself, determined to make a good impression, to show I could handle this.

As we pulled into the driveway, Cat took one more picture—this time of the house with the setting sun behind it—and then put her phone away.

"Ready?" she asked softly.

"Ready," I answered, not entirely sure but trying to sound confident.

She helped me out of the car seat (I let out a small sigh of relief each time I got out of that thing), and we headed inside. The scent of roasting beef and fresh bread wafted through the air, making my mouth water. The warmth of the house, the soft hum of conversation—Cat's parents were sitting together in the living room, watching a cooking show as we entered.

Grandma looked up and smiled. "You're back! Perfect timing. Erika, would you help me set the table?"

I nodded eagerly. "Of course." It felt good to be included, to be useful rather than just a passive observer.

As I followed Grandma to the dining room, Cat and her father stayed behind, talking quietly. I glanced over my shoulder, noticing the tension in Cat's posture and the way her father's arms remained crossed. Their conversation was muted, their words out of earshot, but I could sense the strain.

Grandma handed me placemats and silverware. "Put these around the table, dear," she said, smiling encouragingly. "It'll be just the four of us tonight, nice and simple. Tomorrow, maybe we'll go to the coast."

"That sounds lovely," I said, placing the mats carefully, making sure everything was straight and neat. I wanted to do a good job, to show that I respected their home.

When Cat and her father joined us, Cat gave me a small smile. I could tell she appreciated my effort. Her father merely sat down at the table, saying nothing, and Grandma busied herself with finishing touches in the kitchen. The tension wasn't gone, but dinner would start soon, and maybe the shared meal would ease things further.

I thought about the camera roll in Cat's phone, filled with pictures of me blushing at gas stations, standing by silly statues, eating snacks in the back of the car seat. We had made so many memories already, and I realized that even if her father never warmed up to me completely, I had Cat, I had Grandma, I had a new life full of possibilities.

Insecurity still hovered, but I tried to push it aside. I belonged here, in some way. I just had to trust that Cat's love wouldn't vanish if her father disapproved. I had to trust that we were building something lasting, something that wouldn't crumble under the weight of a single person's judgment.

And as we sat down to dinner, the smell of turkey and stuffing filling the air, I mustered a smile, determined to make this Thanksgiving a step forward, not backward, in my new life as Erika Barlowe.

----------------------

i know i am like papa 🙂‍↕️💔

but nonetheless its here :))))