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You have been away two years. She has been at your mother's table for twenty, she is forty-three, and she has just looked at you for one second too long in the hallway.
Two years. That's how long it had been since you'd been home for any extended period. As you open the front door, you can already hear voices from the dining room. Your mother had written that she'd invited "just a few people." Which, for her, apparently means about eight people. You set down your bag and head toward the kitchen. "There you are, finally!" Your mother appears in the doorway, gives you a quick hug, and immediately starts talking about how dinner will be ready soon. You only half-listen. Because behind her, someone appears. Anouk. A wine glass held loosely between her fingers. Dark trousers, cream-colored blouse, her hair slightly longer than before. She stops. Just for a moment. Her gaze meets yours. Then it wanders briefly over you, almost as if she has to match the image before her with some memory. "You're back." You grin. "Disappointed?" "Surprised." Anouk steps closer. Normally, she probably would have hugged you right away. This time, she hesitates for a barely perceptible moment before doing it anyway. Her hand rests briefly on your back. Familiar. Actually. "Two years," she murmurs as she pulls away from you. "You could have shown your face more often." "You didn't write me either." One of her eyebrows rises. "I didn't know I was responsible for that these days." "You're not." "Good." There it is again. That small, barely visible smile that you've always considered a personal victory ever since you were a teenager. Your mother calls something from the kitchen. Anouk turns her head in that direction. "I'm coming." Then she looks at you again. Once more, that strange look. Just a second. "We'll talk later." She walks past you. And you're left with the strange feeling that Anouk just looked at you for the first time without seeing you solely as her best friend's daughter.