I stand in front of the old wooden door. In the lower-left corner, I can still see the contours of where I scratched my sisters' name in the wood. Back then, I had thought it to be a clever idea to push the blame on her and get her into trouble. In the end, my mother still somehow found out, resulting in me having to paint over the door in the deep blue color it still is today.

My parents' home, and the house where I grew up, is a small house with a big, carefully groomed garden at the edge of the city.

Back when I still lived with my parents, I had always complained about how it would take almost an hour to get anywhere downtown. But now that I actually moved out, I was forced to realize how wonderful quiet it is out here when compared to the constant noise of the city.

I ring the bell.

It might be a bit mean to force my parents to stop what they are doing and open the door for me, despite having a key of my own, but ever since I moved out, just entering on my own felt a bit like I'm intruding. At the same time, I always liked that "feeling of coming home".

Contradictory, but strangely similar at once.

"Hi, Mom.", I say as I move to give my mother a hug.

"Hey, Son. How have you been?", the small woman says, taking me in her arms.

"Alright, mostly."

While most people say that I got my good looks from my mother, especially my dark brown hair, the thing I'm most happy about is that I didn't inherit the small size typical for Spanish people. Completely the opposite to my sister who got most of her looks from our father, especially the chin according to her, but our mothers' small size.

It's to such a degree that we get regularly mistaken for a couple if we do something together, and we even started to make a list.

"Come in. You know, Sarah called us and asked if everything is alright with you. She said you were skipping your lectures. Are you really fine? Are you getting headaches again?"

"You do realize that there never really was a time that I didn't get any, right?", I say, realizing in the same moment that I may never get headaches again.

"Either way, if she is worried about me, why the heck didn't she call me first?"

I put my coat on the hanger and enter the house.

"She tried."

I take my smartphone out and check.

"No, she didn't. That snitch really needs some lessons on the subject of privacy!", I say exasperated.

"Oh come on. My daughter just wanted to talk with her mom.", my mother chuckles.

"Sarah isn't your daughter. She could have been, but she isn't.", the same moment I say that I realize that I made a mistake.

"Right, you had a crush on her. Are you still angry that she rejected you?"

Yep. How do they say? Don't bother the sleeping tiger. Or something like that...

"No. No, I'm not angry at her anymore. And I wasn't angry at her because she rejected me in the first place. I was angry at her because she rejected me and it didn't even take an hour before she accepted an invitation to a date from the guy who transferred to our school just that morning. Right in front of me if I might add."

"So... You still have a crush on her?", my mother says teasingly.

Sometimes I wonder if my mother has Alzheimer's. It's not like haven't talked about this a hundred times already.

"Seriously? Who do think I am?", I sigh as I throw myself on the couch.

"My son. And someone who knows how to hold quite the grudge. Those were always the one thing you wouldn't forget no matter what."

"First, that was a hypothetical question. Second, that was years ago! In case you haven't noticed, Sarah and Daniel are engaged since last year and I'm good friends with both of them."

One thing is for sure. I will never understand those people who idolize this whole childhood friend thing.

"Anyways!", I put an end to this discussion, "Is the washing machine free?"

My mother looks at the clock and says: "It should have just finished. Could you be a darling hang the clothes up?"

"Tsk.", I click my tongue. Should have expected it.

With a sigh, I drag myself from the couch and pick up the bag with my laundry.

Seeing that my mother has already started working in the kitchen, I ask: "Right. Where is dad?"

"I don't think he can come home before you leave."

"That's unusual, and pretty bad timing. There was something I wanted to ask him."

Well, actually that may be ow it's normally for other people. But my father always found a way to get off work earlier when either me or my sister visit.

"Ah, that's actually something we need to talk about. After we eat something."

Just as I want to say something, my mother interrupts me.

"Now take care of your laundry already, there is no need to worry."

Now, if anything, that made me worry only more. Still, I know that there is no use in pressing this matter. I know my mother will tell me what going on.

Fifteen minutes later, my task is finished and I can already smell the soup before I even enter the living room.

"What did you want to talk about with your father by the way?", my mother asks as I sit down at the table.

"Oh, right. I wanted to borrow some of dad's guns. I only need them for a week or so."

"Oh? What do you need those for? You aren't planning to rob a bank, are you?"

I give my mother my best "are you fucking serious?" look and answer: "No, I made a stupid bet with a senior. I tried to pull out, but he is the kind of guy where it causes me less trouble to just go along with it, and it's not like I will lose anything if I actually lose.", Of course, I have already thought of an excuse beforehand, and I figured this was the one that would cause the least trouble.

"Mh? What kind of bet?"

"Supposedly, he can shoot better with a handgun with his eyes closed than I can with my eyes open no matter what weapon I use... As I said, stupid."

"...Well, take what you need. You know the code to the safe."