The house in Calgary hadn’t changed much. It still smelled faintly like cinnamon and laundry detergent, the same scent that used to cling to your sweaters when you were teenagers. The hardwood floors had the same scuffs from years of dragging furniture, and the fridge was still covered in family photos, half of them slightly crooked.

But tonight, it was anything but peaceful.

“Give it back!” you yelled, lunging across the living room toward Tate, who was already darting behind the couch with a mischievous grin plastered on her face.

She held your phone above her head like it was a trophy, her laughter echoing off the walls. “Why? So you can keep texting your mystery man?” she teased, drawing out the words just to get under your skin. “What’s his name again? Oh, right—you won’t tell anyone.”

“Because it’s none of your business!” you shot back, reaching over the couch to snatch at her hand, but she was quicker. She always was. She dodged left, then scrambled over the armrest like you were both sixteen again and not grown adults in your twenties.

Your mother, Tanja, was in the kitchen making tea, and you could practically feel the sharpness of her sigh from the other room.

“Girls…” she called, her voice carrying that warning tone.

Neither of you listened.

Tate squealed as you managed to grab her hoodie, dragging her halfway back over the couch, both of you laughing and yelling at the same time. She wriggled free, bolting down the hallway, and you chased after her with no shame.

“Stop being such a brat!” you shouted.

“You stop being so secretive!” she fired back, darting into your old shared bedroom like she was making a tactical retreat.

By the time you burst through the door, both of you were red-faced, breathless, and glaring like children. She was clutching the phone to her chest, her hair wild from running.

“Tate, I swear to God—”

Before you could finish, Tanja’s voice rang out behind you, sharp enough to slice through the chaos.

“Tatum!”

You froze. Tate froze. Slowly, you both turned.

There she was, standing in the doorway in her slippers, tea towel in one hand, the other on her hip. She looked exactly the way she used to when you were teenagers caught sneaking in past curfew—equal parts tired, annoyed, and faintly amused.

“What is this?” she demanded, gesturing between the two of you.

“She started it!” you blurted.

Tate immediately pointed at you. “No, she started it!”

“Unbelievable,” Tanja muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You are grown women. One of you is internationally touring, the other is working full-time, and you’re still acting like you’re fourteen and fighting over hair straighteners.”

“That was her fault too,” you said under your breath.

“I HEARD that,” Tanja snapped, glaring at you before turning to Tate. “And you—give your sister back her phone.”

Tate groaned dramatically, stomping over like she was being sentenced to prison. She shoved the phone into your hand with an exaggerated pout. “Fine. Here.”

You snatched it, muttering, “Thank you, finally.”

“Don’t thank me, thank Mom,” she shot back.

“Enough!” Tanja clapped her hands once, the sound echoing like thunder in the room. You and Tate both snapped your mouths shut instantly—it was muscle memory, the kind drilled into you from years under her roof.

She gave you both a long, withering look. “You may be celebrities now, but under this roof, you are my daughters. And if I hear one more shout, you’re both going to sit on that couch in the living room and hold hands until you remember you actually love each other.”

The silence was deafening.

“Mom, we’re not twelve,” Tate finally muttered.

“I don’t care if you’re thirty,” Tanja said flatly. “I raised you better than this.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and walked back toward the kitchen, leaving behind an air of finality that only a mother could pull off.

You and Tate exchanged a look.

And then, like always, the tension broke. You both started laughing, soft at first, then uncontrollably, collapsing onto the edge of the bed.