Lars marches up the walk, his smile stretched so broad it's unsettling—more predatory than joyful. He pushes open the squeaky front door, letting it swing inward, and calls out. The living room is cluttered with family photos, crocheted blankets, and the gentle tick-tock of an old clock.
Agnes emerges from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, eyes narrowing at her son's demeanor. "What's up, dear?"
Lars slides a stack of papers across the table, his grin never wavering. "You remember the money I fronted you for the repairs to the house, including the new roof and furnace?" He taps the document, his fingers drumming impatiently.
Agnes reads, her hands trembling slightly. "But, Lars. This is the house you grew up in. The family home. How can you ever think of selling it?" The weight of Lars’ silence hangs heavy, broken only by the distant sound of a lawn mower outside.
Agnes watches as Lars devours his meal, taking a second helping without hesitation. She sits opposite him, her plate untouched, gaze fixed on her son. "I'm disappointed in you, Lars. I'd think you'd want to keep the old family homestead in the family. Who knows when you might need to move in with your Mother again."
Lars snickers, dismissing her words. "Remember, Lars, I brought you into this world, and I can take you back," Agnes warns, her tone layered with meaning. Lars mocks her, unaware of the shift in the air.
Lars panics as his sleeves swallow his hands, and the fork becomes unwieldy in his tiny grasp. "What's happening?" he whimpers, voice childlike. Agnes stands over him, her smile a mix of triumph and bittersweet affection.
"It's the sauce," she says, her eyes glinting. With several more jolts, Lars shrinks further, helpless in a pile of oversized clothing.
Agnes dresses Lars, who struggles to move his tiny limbs, frustration etched on his infant face. She buttons him up snugly, her actions brisk but tender. The house feels quieter now, the echoes of family memories lingering in the corners.
Carrying him back to the kitchen, Agnes prepares a baby bottle, warming it in a saucepan. "See, I told you that you might one day need to move back with your Mother," she jokes, attempting to coax the bottle into Lars’ mouth.
Agnes smiles, her resolve firm. "I heard about the offer for the house. But I wouldn't sell. And now you cannot sell it either. Looks like in taking you back, I also took you out of your plot against me," she says, her laugh echoing through the kitchen.
Lars squirms, resisting the bottle, but Agnes is relentless. "I guess I actually served you take-out food," she quips, the pun hanging in the air as Lars contemplates his new reality, unable to protest with more than a baby’s wail.
