Two feet of snow had accumulated by the time you decided to come home. Bundled up in a fraying white scarf that was miles too long and the blue jacket you had gotten for your fourteenth birthday, you came sloshing in through the front door. Powdery snow was tumbling out of the folds of the winter cap that was askew on your pretty little golden head. Your hair gleamed from the oil that had collected from going two weeks without a proper shower. You stomped twice on the welcome mat to rid your shoes of the snow that hung stubbornly on, but instead sent chunks sliding across the hardwood floor. I knew the cold didn't faze you one bit.
     You hung your jacket on the hanger that had been missing the touch of your fabric for ten days. You were wearing only a flimsy grey cardigan underneath and one of your favorite shirts - a black tee with a math joke on it. You loved math. I dusted the trophies you won at the Math Decathlon every day you were gone.
     You walked straight past me on your way to the stairs. Your eyes looked icy and dead. I think you wanted me to put down my novel and run over to you screaming about how much we had missed you and don't you ever run off like that and give me and your father a heart attack like that ever again.
     Every step you took up the stairs seemed hundred of decibels too loud.