REBEL GRAINED

THE PRODIGAL SON

Lars always imagined coming home as an accomplished businessman thriving on his millions. He saw himself sitting at his parents' table, telling everyone about his exploits abroad.

He would have told them about his rare barista and how her coffee would change the world.

Yes, he would have done all that in another story. There, he arrived in Stockholm on a rainy day. The flight offered no rest. Neither the movies nor the concerts of the airline channel managed to appease the man.

Nor did the champagne or wine; Lars was alone with his angst. He had left one situation for another, filled with the shame of his fast-running mouth.

The scenes replayed as he prepared to go through customs.

Do you think I can't make it without you? I ran this place. I made money while you enjoyed parenthood, and everyone else just sat waiting for profit. You all owe me. My decisions are what made you all extremely wealthy people.

Words.

Lars had spilt so many in total and utter carelessness.

Now he choked on his pride while he envisioned seeing his family. In the meantime, he faced a customs officer.

"Valkommen hem herr Potsmann, [well come home Mr. Potsmann]."

The word home made Lars want to break down and cry. His heart throbbed with confused emotions. The man didn't know if he was miserable, happy, or relieved about being there. He tried to convince himself there was no regret to have. It wasn't like he had left something behind.

Lars grabbed his luggage and exited the airport, only to return inside. He had prepared himself for everything except the weather. The temperatures weren't low, but they were freezing for the man from Johannesburg. The thought of the South African heat flew him back to the country; images began to emerge. The effervescence of the streets, the smell of food, the music, andㅡ. He stopped before she came to mind to reign supreme. Lars gathered his courage and stepped out again.

He ran to grab a taxi.

"Vart är du på väg? [where are you going?] the taxi driver asked.

"Ostermalm."

Lars was a privileged man who loved to show off his status. The area he lived in left no doubt about his wealth. Any person Lars gave his address to immediately knew he was not a man needing a penny. Lars and his siblings had grown up eating the same food and having the same education, but of the Potsmann children, he was the only one who loved to flaunt. Humility and patience though verified Swedish personality traits, weren't his forte. Lars always looked for shortcuts in everything he did. His plan had always been to reach the heights in the shortest time. Stuck in his present timeline, his future held no significant meaning for him to think of it.

Thirty minutes later, Lars opened the door to his apartment-turned-loft. He had knocked down the walls of three of the four bedrooms to win more space for the parties he threw. No, he no longer planned to have kids or his family over for the night. His walls were bare, and the decor was sober Moder Yoder style.

Lars didn't take time to look about; he headed straight to the shower, where the smell of the water surprised him. Stockholm and Johannesburg had hard water, but somehow it felt so different. Lars didn't know how long he stayed under the showerhead, but his skin was all wrinkled when he came out.

He immediately grabbed his phone and dialed the number of a few friends to say he was back. It was only a short time before people began to ask him if he was going to throw a party to celebrate his return. Of course, the answer was yes.