I kicked up little puffs of dust as I walked up the path toward the house, my backpack feelin' heavier than it did this mornin'. The sun was sittin' lower in the sky now, but the air was still thick and warm, the kinda heat that stuck to your skin.

As I got closer, I could see Mama out on the porch, rockin' slowly in her chair with a glass of sweet tea restin' on the little side table. Her hair was pulled back in a loose bun, and her eyes squinted against the sun as she saw me comin'.

"Hey there, baby," she called, smilin'. "How was your first day?"

I climbed the steps and dropped my backpack beside the door with a heavy thud.

"It was good," I said, ploppin' down on the top step. "I mean, it wasn't the same without Miss Parker, but I like Mr. Johnson okay. He's real big on makin' sure we say our words proper."

Mama chuckled. "Well, that ain't a bad thing."

I leaned back on my hands, feelin' the warmth of the wood under my palms.

"We had recess, and me and the girls played soccer against the boys. We beat 'em."

Mama raised her eyebrows. "You don't say?"

"Yep," I said proudly. "Jacob thought they had it in the bag, but we showed 'em."

"Well, look at you. Showin' those boys not to underestimate the girls." She winked. "What else?"

"We did multiplication, startin' with the zeros. And I knew all the answers, 'cause zero times anything is always zero."

Mama nodded. "Smart girl."

"Oh! And we had art. I drew Papa cleanin' that gator."

Mama's face twisted like she was rememberin' that day. "Lord have mercy, Emily..."

I laughed. "Mrs. Wilson liked it! Said it was 'detailed work.'"

Mama shook her head, smilin' anyway. "You're somethin' else."

We sat there a minute, listenin' to the sounds of the swamp driftin' from beyond the trees—the croakin' frogs, the buzzin' of bugs, and the occasional rustle of somethin' bigger movin' through the brush. The kind of sounds that let you know you were home.

"You hungry?" Mama asked after a bit.

"A little."

"Well, why don't you wash up and help me peel some taters? We'll get supper started before Papa gets back."

"Yes, ma'am."

Mama handed me a bowl and a peeler, along with a few lumpy taters that still had bits of dirt clingin' to 'em.

"Here you go, baby. Start peelin' those while I get the skillet ready," she said, turnin' toward the stove.

I sat down at the kitchen table, takin' a tater in my hand and draggin' the peeler across its skin. The rough brown peel curled off in strips, fallin' into the bowl like little ribbons. I liked helpin' in the kitchen—least when it wasn't somethin' too hard. Peelin' taters was easy. Just me, my hands, and that soft scratchin' sound as the peeler worked.

"So, what's this Mr. Johnson like, really?" Mama asked, her back to me as she poured oil into the skillet.

I shrugged. "He's nice, but he talks real proper. Keeps correctin' us when we say things like 'goin'' instead of 'going.' Wants us to sound smart."

Mama chuckled. "Nothin' wrong with soundin' smart. Though folks 'round here ain't ever gonna stop speakin' the way we are, no matter what he wants."

I laughed. "I reckon not."

Mama stirred the oil around the pan, and the warm smell started fillin' the kitchen—the kind that made my belly rumble a little louder.

I was halfway through my third tater when I heard the sound I always waited for—the low hum of Papa's truck rollin' up the dirt road. Tires crunchin' slow over gravel, then the familiar rattle as it came to a stop near the porch.

I perked up right away. "Papa's home!"

Mama wiped her hands on her apron. "Go on, let him know supper's almost ready."

I shot up, leavin' the half-peeled tater behind, and ran outside barefoot onto the porch. Papa was climbin' out of his truck, stretchin' his back like he'd been bent over wood all day. His work shirt was dusty, and his boots were caked with sawdust and dirt. His face was tired, but when he saw me, he smiled.

"Hey there, kiddo," he said, his voice warm. "How was school?"

"Good!" I said, grinnin'. "We beat the boys at soccer!"

He laughed, pullin' his toolbox from the back of the truck. "That right? Those boys better learn not to mess with you."

"Yes, sir!" I said proudly.

I followed him up the steps, my little wooden fox still sittin' right where I left it that mornin', guardin' the porch like a treasure.

"Mama says supper's almost ready," I added as we stepped inside.

"Music to my ears," Papa said, wipin' his forehead. He leaned over and kissed Mama on the cheek. "Smells good in here."

"Fried pork chops and taters," she said. "Figured you'd be hungry after today."

"You figured right," he said, settin' his toolbox by the door.

I went back to finish peelin' the last tater while Papa washed up at the sink. His rough hands were stained from work, but he scrubbed 'em best he could before dryin' off.

Soon, the smell of sizzlin' pork chops filled the kitchen, mixin' with the cracklin' of the taters Mama had tossed into the hot oil.

We all sat down together, holdin' hands while Papa gave thanks for the food, for our family, and for another good day.

"Amen," we all said, and I dug in, that first crunchy bite of fried tater tastin' like home.

I listened while Papa talked about the cabinet he'd been buildin' for Mrs. Jenkins and how her dog kept stealin' his tools when he wasn't lookin'. Mama laughed, shakin' her head, and I told Papa more about school—about Mr. Johnson, and how he wanted us to speak proper.

"Well," Papa said, takin' a sip of his sweet tea, "ain't nothin' wrong with speakin' proper when you need to. But you don't forget where you come from either."

I grinned. That sounded just right to me.

As the sun started settin' outside, I felt it again—that feelin' of bein' right where I belonged. School was fine, but home... home was my favorite place to be.

After supper, my belly was full, and my eyes felt a little heavy, but the day wasn't over just yet. As Mama started cleanin' up the dishes, Papa stretched back in his chair, lettin' out a satisfied sigh.

"That was some good eatin'," he said, patting his stomach.

"Yes, sir," I agreed, my mouth still tastin' a bit like fried pork chops and taters.

I saw Papa glance toward the porch, and I knew what that meant. Every now and then, when the air cooled off a little, and the day was slowin' down, he liked to sit out there—just listenin' to the sounds of the swamp and the breeze through the trees.

"You comin', kiddo?" he asked.

"You bet!" I said, already pushin' back from the table.

We stepped out onto the porch, the old boards creakin' under our feet. The sun had dropped low, leavin' the sky painted in shades of pink and purple. The air was thick with the sound of frogs croakin' and crickets chirpin'. In the distance, I could even hear the faint call of a barred owl, echoing through the trees like it was askin', "Who cooks for you?"

I plopped down on the top step, lettin' my bare feet dangle, while Papa eased into his rocker. He leaned back with a soft creak, his eyes driftin' toward the tree line.

We didn't talk much at first. We didn't have to. Bein' out here, surrounded by the sounds of home, felt good all on its own.

After a minute, I broke the quiet. "Papa... you ever wish you could go somewhere far away? Like... on one of those trains?"

He glanced over at me, his face thoughtful. "Hmm... maybe once or twice, when I was younger. Thought about seein' other places. But then, I always figured... everything I need's right here."

I nodded slowly, lettin' that sink in.

"I guess I just wonder sometimes what it'd be like," I said. "Like... seein' big cities, or mountains, or maybe even the ocean."

Papa smiled. "Ain't nothin' wrong with wonderin'. And if you ever get the itch to go see all that when you're older, you should. But just remember... no matter where you go, this place'll always be home."

I looked out toward the woods, the shadows stretchin' longer now, almost touchin' the porch.

"I like home," I said quietly.

Papa nodded. "Me too."

The air was startin' to cool, but I stayed put, listenin' to the chorus of the swamp animals, lettin' their songs fill the quiet spaces between me and Papa.

This—this was the part of the day I loved most.

The air shifted—just a little at first. The breeze carried a coolness it didn't have before, and I noticed the sky had darkened, gray clouds creepin' in where the pink and purple had been.

A soft plop hit the porch railing.

Then another.

Within seconds, the gentle patter of rain filled the air, tap-tap-tappin' against the roof, splashin' onto the dirt yard below. The smell of wet earth rose up, mixin' with the faint scent of pine and swamp water. It was the kind of rain that made you wanna stay put and just listen.

I tucked my legs up under me on the step, watchin' the raindrops dance across the ground.

Papa leaned back in his rocker, his eyes half-closed, a content smile on his face.

"There it is," he murmured, his voice low and easy. "A good summer rain."

I liked the sound of that—summer rain. It felt softer than the heavy storms we sometimes got. This was the kind you could sit with.

A few minutes later, Mama pushed open the screen door, holdin' a towel in her hand, like she'd thought maybe we were gettin' drenched. But when she saw we were just sittin' and enjoyin' it, she paused.

"You two just gonna sit out here in the rain?" she asked, though there was a gentle laugh in her voice.

"Yes, ma'am," I said, grinnin'.

She stood there for a second, then sighed like she was givin' in. "Well... guess I'll join you."

She sat down beside me on the step, tuckin' the towel into her lap, just in case. I leaned into her a little, feelin' the warmth of her arm next to mine.

We didn't say much. We didn't need to.

We just watched the rain fall—tiny rivers form in the dirt, drops dancin' on the leaves, the trees swayin' ever so slightly in the gentle wind. The sounds of the swamp blended right into it—frogs still croakin', insects hummin', nature not mindin' the rain one bit.

We sat there a while, just listenin' to the rain, breathin' in that good, clean smell it left behind. The kind that made everything feel a little fresher, like the earth was takin' a big drink after a long, hot day.

Then, just when I thought it couldn't get any better, Mama had to ruin it.

"Emily," she said, her voice gentle but with that Mama tone that let you know somethin' was comin'. "You got any homework today?"

I groaned, slouchin' down like the rain had suddenly turned to mud and swallowed me whole.

"Mama," I whined, "why'd you have to bring that up? We were havin' such a nice time!"

Papa chuckled from his rocker, rockin' slow. "She got you there, Beverly."

Mama gave him a playful side-eye but stayed focused on me. "That's all well and good, but you ain't gonna be fallin' behind on your first day."

I huffed, crossin' my arms. "I got a math sheet—zeros multiplication. I already know it, though. It's easy."

"Easy or not, it still needs doin'," she said, nudgin' me with her elbow.

I sighed, knowin' she was right, even if I didn't like hearin' it.

Papa grinned, his eyes twinklin' like he remembered this feelin' all too well. "Get it done now, kiddo. Then you can enjoy the rest of the evenin' without it hangin' over your head."

I grumbled under my breath but pushed myself up off the step. The rain was still fallin', light and steady, but the cozy feel of sittin' there was replaced by the dread of math problems.

"I'll be quick," I muttered.

Mama patted my back as I stood up. "That's my girl."

I went inside, grabbin' my backpack and diggin' out the crinkled worksheet. I sat at the kitchen table, pencil in hand, workin' through each problem. And yeah... I was right. It was easy.

Zero times anything was always zero.

But still—I'd rather be listenin' to rain with Mama and Papa on the porch.

I scratched the last answer onto my worksheet, lettin' out a long breath like I'd just run ten miles. Even though the math was easy, I was glad to have it done. I stuffed the paper back into my folder and tossed it into my backpack, pushin' it to the side like I didn't wanna think about it again until tomorrow.

The rain had slowed to a light drizzle, barely more than a mist, and I could still hear Mama and Papa talkin' low out on the porch. I stepped outside, the air smellin' fresh and cool after the rain. The ground was damp, little puddles fillin' the dips in the dirt, and the leaves on the trees dripped softly onto the ground.

I plopped down right back on the step where I'd been before.

"All done," I said proudly.

Papa gave a little nod. "Told you you'd feel better gettin' it out of the way."

"I guess," I said, grinnin'.

A few minutes later, Mama pushed open the screen door, carryin' a tray with three glasses of lemonade and somethin' covered with a dish towel. She set it down on the little table beside Papa's chair.

I noticed the lemonade right away—it wasn't just the usual kind. It was the special one. Pale yellow, with little green specks floatin' in it.

Tarragon Lemonade.

Mama's favorite, and truth be told, I liked it a lot too. It was sweet, but that tarragon gave it somethin' extra—kinda like a little whisper of somethin' fancy. Not somethin' we had all the time, so I knew tonight was special.

She handed me a glass, beads of condensation already slippin' down the sides. I took a sip—the cool lemon tang mixed with that light, herby taste. It was perfect after the warm day.

Then, Mama pulled the towel off the dish, revealin' a pan of peach cobbler, still warm. The sweet smell hit me right away—peaches, sugar, and that golden crust that always made my mouth water.

I looked up at her, wide-eyed. "Cobbler, Mama? On a school night?"

She laughed. "I figured we deserved a little treat. First day of school and all."

Papa rubbed his hands together. "Now you're talkin'."

We each grabbed a bowl, and Mama spooned out the cobbler, steamin' hot, the syrupy peaches bubblin' under the crust. I didn't even care that it burned my tongue a little—I was too busy tastin' all that sweet, gooey goodness.

We sat there together—Mama, Papa, and me—sippin' our lemonade, eatin' cobbler, listenin' to the rain as it finally drifted away, leavin' the sounds of the swamp behind.

The frogs had started back up, singin' louder than ever, and a few lightning bugs blinked out near the trees.

I leaned back, feelin' full and happy.

This was home.

And there was nowhere else I'd rather be.

After helpin' Mama bring in the dishes and huggin' Papa goodnight, I made my way to my room. The window was cracked just a little, lettin' in the cool night air and the sounds of the swamp driftin' through. The frogs were already singin', their deep croaks mixin' with the occasional chirp of crickets. It was like a song—one I'd heard every night for as long as I could remember.

I changed into my nightshirt and knelt down beside my bed, like I always did.

I folded my hands together and closed my eyes. "Dear Lord, thank You for today. Thank You for Mama and Papa. Thank You for school and for my friends. And thank You for givin' us this home. Please watch over us while we sleep. Amen."

When I finished, I climbed into bed, pullin' the covers up tight under my chin. My little wooden fox sat on the nightstand, watchin' over me, its smooth tail catchin' the soft glow from the moonlight slippin' in through the window.

I laid still, listenin'—just listenin'.

The frogs kept on croakin', slow and steady, like they were singin' me to sleep. Their sounds mixed with the gentle rustlin' of leaves and the occasional plop of somethin' in the water out near the swamp.

It was a sound I knew better than any song.

And before I knew it, my eyes got heavy, and I drifted off—wrapped up in the music of home.