We are happy to share yet another submission from our 2025 WGI Invite to Write Challenge! 

Last summer, we asked our talented cohorts to create a piece on this prompt: Write a story where the end is also the beginning.

Next up, we are sharing Rachel Bryson’s piece entitled, “The Visit.” Stay tuned, as we will continue posting the submissions throughout the winter!

You can find more of Rachel’s writing here: https://mybrainwearsgasolinepanties.wordpress.com/

The Visit

I

The girls giggle and squirm next to the stranger with my father’s face. He smells like cigarettes. He always did, but like most memories, I’ve reduced him to a snapshot —a 2D moment buried in a drawer somewhere. Now the past tastes pungent as it unravels before my children. He pulls butterscotch candies from the top pocket of his thin button-down shirt and offers them to the kids, enticing trust and smiles. 

He looks small sitting in my living room. His skin is the same color as the sofa, and if it weren’t for the orange flower pattern, he’d be lost in the oversized cushions. I’m trying to remember when we bought this couch. It must have been before the boys were born. The fabric is stiff, and the girls complain that it scratches their skin, but it’s sturdy and built to last. It’s a shame families aren’t always given the same attention. 

Before my father called to say he was in town and wanted to talk, to say “I’m sorry, I’m dying,” to say that he wanted to meet my children, there was the familiar chime of ceramic dishes and cutlery in soapy water in our small kitchen. Now, I am underwater. There is so much silence in the room, I can feel part of me slipping down into the earth. When the babysitter arrives, he says we should get going, like I’m the one causing this reunion to happen late. 

“Let’s take a photo,” I say. He won’t be back at the house, and I want to remember this ending with the kids smiling. They won’t remember his wheezing excuses if I turn my father back into a photograph. After all, we only waste film on pretty moments. So I smile, too, and tell my husband to get the camera. Tonight, we’ll go out to dinner and he’ll talk and I’ll listen. Tomorrow, it will be done, and I can put this feeling to rest. 

I let the girls stand up on the couch. They are grinning, and they lean against the stranger with ease, but then, they don’t know he is temporary. I awkwardly place my youngest in my father’s arms. Then take the toddler from my husband and sit beside my father.  

II

He smells of cigarettes. My sister and I sit on the couch while our mom kneels in front of us, explaining who this man is and why he’s come to visit. I’m trying to understand, but the material is scratchy against my bare skin, and I want to go outside and play. My sister sits between me and the stranger. I’m anxious, but I’m also thinking about how lucky I am to have two grandfathers. This one is my mother’s secret. 

He’s nothing like my dad’s dad, who taught me to fish, built a tree house in our backyard, and tells stories about when he was a soldier a million years before my dad was born. This man is quiet. He has big ears and small eyes. His thin shirt hangs loose on his wiry frame, and the orange flowers on our couch bring out the blue hue of his lips. He smiles at us. I’m unsure what it means, but he shares his butterscotch candies, so I offer him my baby-tooth grin. 

My dad stands sentinel to my right with my brother in his arms. My brother’s favorite trucker hat is turned backward on his head, and he chokeholds his Cut N Sew Donald Duck. The baby lies on a knitted blue blanket on the floor, softly cooing and kicking his legs. Mom says they are going out to dinner to talk. That means a babysitter for us and leftovers served in old Country Crock tubs. 

But before they go, she wants a picture to remember this moment. My sister jumps up to stand behind our new grandpa, dragging me along. This will be the only time we are allowed to stand on the couch. Mom doesn’t even ask us to take off our shoes. She picks up the baby and places him awkwardly in Grandpa’s arms. Then, she takes my brother from my dad and sits stiffly beside her father. 

We sit, waiting for Dad to get the camera ready. My sister wraps one arm around me and leans the other on Grandpa’s shoulder, preparing to ham when Dad says cheese. My brother sucks his thumb. Grandpa rattles because his lungs won’t give him the breath he needs to cough—the baby wriggles. Mom stares silently forward. I look up at the white popcorn ceiling and think of the clouds floating between us and heaven, where grandpa is going to live.

III

The kitchen glows with morning light. The air is still heavy from the previous night’s rain, but the mist has lifted, leaving behind a buttery blue sky. I sit at the kitchen table, the phone receiver heavy in my shaky hands. Claire is at the sink washing up after breakfast. The birdsong of ceramic dishes and cutlery in soapy water fills the small space. I think about moving to the dining room, where I can close the double pocket doors, but the spiral cord is already stretched thin across the formica countertops. 

I found her name in black and white. If only dialing the number were as easy. It’s been twenty-five years, so I should know by now what I need to say, but my breath is shallow these days, and ‘I’m sorrys’ are hard to swallow. I only hope she appreciates the effort. 

The clock reads 9:12 AM. I stare at the long hand lying flat on its back and wish I could sleep too, but the rattle in my chest keeps me up at night. The minute hand acts as legs stretching its toes towards the number three as the seconds tick by. I look down at my arms. The skin stretched and marked with time–a purple and brown constellation to tell my story. I can measure my days in packets of cigarettes. The only thing slow about a burning cigarette is the smoke it leaves behind. What will I leave behind? 

The kids are off to school, and I need to get up and finish this task. The minute hand is now on twenty-five after, Time will need to stand up straight or risk breaking its back. I can’t wait much longer to make the call. My mouth is dry, and I take out a butterscotch candy to soothe my throat. The sweetness mixes with the acrid smell that permeates the entire house. On the table beside the open phone book, my cigarette rests in an ashtray, the rising smoke mixing with sun and dust mites. The glittering remains from a fairy tale that could have been.