When the plane finally touched down at Los Angeles International Airport, the air smelled of jet fuel and dry heat—a stark contrast to the freezing, metallic tang of the shipyard. I didn’t wait for luggage; I had everything I owned in a single battered duffel bag. I hailed a taxi, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

“To the outskirts,” I told the driver, giving him the address of the house I had purchased for Matilda, my mother, just before I left. It was a modest, charming place with a sprawling garden where she used to grow hydrangeas. I pictured her there now, perhaps knitting on the porch, waiting for the prodigal son.