The Homecoming : Part 1

Oh my gosh, babe, where do I even begin? Picture me—Venice Lawson, a tall-ish glass of latte-brown fabulousness (if I do say so myself)—stepping off this tiny little commuter plane onto the tarmac at our dinky local airport, looking all chic in my navy pantsuit and bright pink heels. My hair’s pinned back into a sleek ponytail, makeup on point, and I’m juggling three big-city suitcases while scanning the crowd for the one person I’d both dreaded and longed to see again: my best friend (and first big heartbreak), Donna. ( Lesbian Romantic Story)

Let me backtrack a sec, sweetie, because I’m already getting ahead of myself. I’ve been living in the city for, what, eight years now? Time flew by like a freaking bullet train after I snagged that internship with a mega legal firm. You know the type: glass skyscraper, a gazillion attorneys in crisp suits strutting around spouting legal jargon, and me, wide-eyed but determined to make my mark. It worked out way better than I could’ve imagined; I rose through the ranks, scored a corner office with a view of the skyline, and built a life that made me proud. I was set... or so I told myself.

Then, out of the blue, I get this call from my Uncle Bill who basically says: “Venice, your mom’s health is dipping. She’s been asking about you.” Talk about a punch in the gut, girl. My mother has always been the warm, no-nonsense pillar in our home. Ever since Dad passed away, she’s run our family farm with grit I always respected but never wanted for my own life, you know? I love her—truly—but the prospect of returning to our little rural hometown made my heart race. That place is suffocatingly small. Not just physically, but ideologically, especially when it comes to someone like me—someone who learned the hard way that being a queer, ambitious woman out here can feel like wearing a neon sign that says “Judge Me.”

But Mom needed me, so I packed my entire life into some suitcases and hopped on that plane. Hence the pink heels on a gravelly runway. Not exactly the easiest look to pull off, but hey, a girl’s gotta keep her vibe.

So, there I was, scanning a crowd that mostly consisted of men in trucker hats and women in denim jackets. And then I spotted her—Donna Swenson, my childhood bestie, the girl I used to crush on under the bleachers during soccer practice, the person who gave me butterflies like no other. We’d parted ways, oh my gosh, a lifetime ago, but her face was still so familiar it nearly made me cry on the spot. She’d grown up—like, a full, radiant woman in a flowy floral dress, her caramel-brown hair falling in waves around her shoulders. She had this teacher-chic vibe that was both adorable and so unbelievably sexy to me. And then, meeting those dark, kind eyes reminded me of every memory we ever shared.

“Venice Lawson, get your butt over here!” she squealed, waving me over as if we were sixteen again. My heart soared, and before I could even tug my suitcases along, she crashed into me, arms slung around my neck in a hug that was almost too tight to breathe through—but I didn’t care. I inhaled the scent of vanilla and old pine that always seemed to cling to her. It took me back to the times we’d snuck into the woods behind our barns, laughing about some silly kid drama, or maybe just lying in the grass, daydreaming about a future we could barely imagine.

“I missed you, girl,” she said into my hair. “Welcome home.”

Donna insisted on driving me home in her beat-up blue pickup truck, and let me tell you, that ride was more than a little bumpy. I was gripping the door handle, squealing, “Girl, watch the potholes!” while she just giggled, all calm and collected, and teased, “Oh, big-city lawyer can’t handle a little country road, huh?”

I shot back in my best sassy voice, “Honey, I’ve handled more depositions than you’ve taught classes, so trust me, I can handle anything,” but inside, my stomach fluttered at the way she smiled. It was like nothing had changed and everything had changed at the same time.

And it wasn’t just her. The countryside flashed by—golden fields, rickety fences, the occasional cow or two. The air smelled cleaner, fresh with the promise of something simpler, slower. The tension in my shoulders started loosening bit by bit, even if just a little. When I was a kid, I’d tried to escape this place so desperately—thought it was too small for my big dreams. Now, I felt caught between the cozy warmth of familiarity and the anxiety of memories that might resurface, especially about the last big fight Donna and I had before I left.

She stole a glance at me over the console. “You look good, babe. Life in the city must agree with you.”

I flicked my ponytail over my shoulder. “Well, you know me, sweetie. I flourish where the Wi-Fi is strong, the coffee is expensive, and the hustle never stops.”

Donna laughed, then sobered a bit, clearing her throat. “So... how’s your mom?”

The mood in the truck shifted. I hesitated. “According to Uncle Bill, she’s... she’s not great, Donna. She needs help—someone to manage the house, the farm, doctor’s appointments. You know how stubborn she can be.”

Donna reached out a hand to squeeze mine. “You’re doing the right thing, Venice.”

I sighed, giving her hand a squeeze back. “I know. But it’s just... complicated.”

We pulled up to my mom’s farmhouse, and the sight of it felt both heartbreaking and heartwarming. The paint was peeling, the garden was overgrown, but the big porch and rocking chair were exactly where I remembered them. Memories slammed into me, like that time Dad taught me how to carve pumpkins for Halloween, or how Mom used to chase me around the yard insisting I eat my vegetables. My chest tightened with nostalgia and a tinge of grief.

Donna carried one of my suitcases as we stepped onto the porch. “We can fix this place right up, no problem,” she said, noticing my worried expression. “I’ll help in any way I can.”

Just then, the front door creaked open, and there she was—my mother, slightly more frail, a few more wrinkles, but eyes still just as bright. “Venice,” she said softly, arms outstretched.

I dropped everything and rushed forward, hugging her tight, inhaling the scent of peppermint lotion she’s used for as long as I can remember. “Hey, Mom,” I whispered, barely holding it together. Her hair felt thinner, her body smaller, and I realized how much I’d let time slip by.

Donna lingered behind me, offering a little wave when my mother’s gaze shifted. Mom brightened at the sight of her. “Donna, dear, it’s been ages. Come here and give me a hug.” And just like that, for a sweet moment, it was like a family reunion. My mom always loved Donna—she was like the daughter she never had, even though, ironically, I was her only actual daughter.

After a few minutes of greetings and “You look wonderful” and “So do you,” Donna excused herself. “I’ve got an early class tomorrow,” she explained, promising to visit soon. Her eyes lingered on me for a second longer than normal as she said goodbye, a thousand unspoken words behind that smile.

Inside, I got a clearer picture of Mom’s condition. She moved slower, her energy levels dipped easily, and the house was in need of a thousand little fixes. We talked over dinner—homemade stew she insisted on making despite my protests. Girl, it was good, but I couldn’t relax. My heart was heavy thinking about how I’d help her, about how we’d manage everything.

She noticed, obviously. “Venice, stop worrying,” she scolded gently, ladling more stew into my bowl. “I’m sick, not helpless. You need to focus on your work, your life.”

I rolled my eyes. “Mom, that’s exactly why I’m here. My job can wait. I need to be here—end of story.”

Her lips pursed, but she nodded. We both knew this conversation was only beginning.

That night, I settled into my old bedroom. The walls were still painted a soft lilac—my favorite color when I was fourteen. Old posters of pop bands I’d long since outgrown still clung to the walls, curling at the edges. I flopped onto my bed, absorbing the quiet. No humming city traffic, no phone buzzing constantly. Just crickets and a faint breeze. I pulled out my phone and stared at Donna’s contact, thumb hovering over the call button. My stomach flipped, remembering all the what-ifs and regrets left behind. But something in me wasn’t ready to push that button yet, so I put the phone away, listening to the lonely hush of the country night until I drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, I woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of roosters crowing (which, by the way, is a total cliché but also absolutely real out here—who knew?). After a quick chat with Mom over breakfast—she insisted she was fine, of course—I drove over to the local school to find Donna. She’s an elementary teacher, specializing in arts and crafts. Honestly, it’s perfect for her, given how gentle and creative she’s always been.

I poked my head into her classroom during her planning period, and she lit up. “Venice! Hey, babe, you want to see where all the magic happens?” She beckoned me inside, showing me the

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