The bus pulled out of the tunnel and made the quick turn into Port Authority Bus Terminal. Once the bus parked at the gate, she slung her backpack over her shoulder and she took her rolling suitcase from the line of suitcases that the driver had placed outside the bus. She thanked him and made her way into the terminal. Getting out of the bus was much quicker than getting on; the older woman got off at an earlier stop.

Port Authority Bus Terminal always made Izzy anxious. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry, rushing to get somewhere. It was Monday afternoon and not quite rush hour, so there was less activity. She took the escalator down to the subway. It was less stressful there. She'd ridden it ever since she could remember. It was her way to school and friends' houses. It was summer trips to Coney Island, Central Park, and the Zoo. Evenings out with friends. 

That reminded her she needed to reach out to Emma. They hadn't spoken since winter break when all the plans they made to see each other fell through. Emma's dad had a tight rein on her, which was why he didn't let her go away to college. He made the exception regarding spending time with Izzy and letting them hang out since they went to the same church. Emma didn't tell Izzy why he was on a tirade during Christmas and didn't let her go out anywhere.

Izzy walked up the stairs from the subway onto her street. Nothing ever changed. The man that sold carnations and fruit under the highway overpass was still there. Instead of the "Two dollars here!" chant he had for his carnations when she was a kid, it was now "five dollars here!" She walked past him and greeted him with a smile. It didn't seem like he aged since she started seeing him on her walks home from elementary school right after her mom bought the house.

The street was empty. Most everyone was at work or school. She got to her apartment building halfway down the block. It was a three-story brownstone divided into three apartments. Her mom rented out the top two apartments, and they had the one on the lower level, which was a duplex. The basement level had the kitchen and living room, and the second floor where the two bedrooms were.

Izzy used to imagine what the building was like before it was sub-divided and wondered who used to live there. All the rooms in the building had doors to the hallway. Evidence that, in the beginning, this was a one-family house. The bathrooms were tiny and appeared cobbled together and the lower-level kitchen seemed out of place, as if someone in the middle of the century decided they needed to redo the space. The ceiling was so low that she couldn't raise her arms over her head without touching it and the stairs leading to their rooms were only a couple of feet wide compared to the grand staircase in the main hallway.

Her mom took the more private room facing the street. Izzy's room was where the stairs opened up to the second floor. Her mom crossed through Izzy's room to get to her own. There was no privacy for Izzy. This was an issue once she was in middle school. Her mom didn't appreciate Izzy's way of organizing. She left everything out in the open where she could find things and not forget about them. 

Now that she went away to college, the room was organized. Her tapes were in drawers (the CDs were in college), her books were in the closet that she shared with her mom. The bookshelves had her old bears and dolls that her mom didn't allow her to give away. Her mom made her bed with the same flowery duvet cover that had been there since high school.

Her mom wasn't home yet. She put her bags on her bed and went downstairs to get something to eat. The apartment looked almost unlived in. The knick-knacks on the bookcase by the TV were in the same spot they were in during Christmas Break. Even the books on the coffee table seemed untouched. The only thing that looked different was a Bible by the end table next to the armchair where her mom always sat. Was it always this way? And was she just noticing it now?

She entered the kitchen, which was also neat and spotless. Not even a dish in the sink.

Her mom left a note on the fridge, "Get Chino for dinner. Te amo, mom." Izzy smiled at her mom's scratchy handwriting and her Spanglish. There was milk in the fridge and frosted flakes in the cabinet, so she poured herself a bowl and sat at the table. Izzy stared out the back door to the yard, she was home, and let out a long sigh.