Coming Home, Chapter 1
Book #3 in The Legacy Series.
Have you ever felt out of place? I have, and I also know that home is not necessarily a specific place. It’s feeling at home within.
As I’m transitioning from writing non-fiction for 25+ years, I have to admit this has felt like a homecoming for me. I’m stretching. I’m growing. I’m learning. And yet there’s something within that says, “You were always meant to live here.”
Sometimes it takes time for us to find that place.
Maybe you are there right now, or still searching.
As we begin the third book in The Legacy Series, I want to invite you to take a seat around the table. I’d love to hear your thoughts. If you’ve been on this new adventure with me, you know that sharing these novels with you are part of the process. I’ve loved how you’ve offered input and shared your heart with me.
In this book, titled, “Coming Home,” we explore the love story between Thomas Rhodes and Molly. While Thomas has not felt at home since he and his mother fled during the Boxer Revolution, Molly embraces home wherever she is, an anomaly to the shy, uncertain doctor-to-be. They will face uncertainties in the aftermath of World War I, uncertainties in their own relationship, but hopefully will find their way back to each other, redefining what it means to come home.
Book #3 in The Legacy Series
Chapter One, Coming Home
Thomas Rhodes could never decide which changed him more -- coming to America at the age of seven, or the fact that his father rose from the dead.
All he really knew is that he had not felt at home since.
Thomas fled Tientsin, China in the heat of the Boxer Revolution with his mother, Annabelle, in mid-1900 at the age of 7. Though his grandmother’s arms were warm and welcoming, he never stopped longing for the country left behind. He itched for soft robes instead of dungarees. He felt ill at ease in the greens and dark grayish browns of Covington, Kentucky, wishing for the cascade of colors, clatter, and noise of his childhood. In his nightly dreams he heard the tonal ups and downs of Mandarin, where the pitch of a voice changed the meaning of a word – one syllable meaning mother, but when spoken with a dipping and rising tone, it meant horse. He longed for sweets that didn’t make his teeth ache, and tea that was steaming hot rather than clinking in a glass chilled with ice. While Kentucky boys loved hunting for rabbit and shooting at cans, Thomas missed the vibrant discussions around the table with former friends like Sunsoo, Junhei, Dr. Wong, and Li Ting.
He had always been the odd one out, the one who was different.
“Mr. Rhodes?”
Thomas looked up, startled. Fellow students glanced his way; some smirked. Professor Morrison stood at the front of the theatre; his full attention aimed his way.
“Sir?”
“My question, Mr. Rhodes. Did you hear it?”
Thomas chose to ignore the snickers around him and to own up to his inattention. “I did not.”
“Do you want to be a physician, Mr. Rhodes?”
“I do, indeed.”
“Well, then it might be important to pay attention in class.” Professor Morrison turned his back and with big strokes, wrote out on the board the question he had evidently just asked Thomas.
It was Thomas’ first year at the Ohio-Miami Medical College of the University of Cincinnati, a mouthful for certain, but also one of the stricter universities, highly selective and heavily science-based. It was located just across the river from Northern Kentucky, and the only major, fully accredited medical school serving the area. Thomas, according to the strict guidelines, was not permitted to arrive straight from high school, but was required to complete two full years of pre-medical college work at an approved liberal arts college or university. He had worked diligently until the letter of acceptance had finally arrived.
When the class ended, he gathered his books in a satchel and threw the heavy bag over his shoulder. With a blush of embarrassment still heating his cheeks, Thomas joined in the cluster of students exiting the room.
Outside, the spring air was light and cool. Two more months of school and his first year would be complete. He’d make his way back to Covington, Kentucky and the farm. Though still strong and active, his parents were aging and his help was welcomed.
A light floral scent tickled his nose and Thomas looked up.
She sat on the bench. Red hair, waves cascading down her back. An open book, Henry Gray’s Anatomy: Descriptive and Surgical, rested on her lap. She gazed in the distance as if deep in thought. Delicate papery pink petals from a nearby Cherry tree floated by her as if spring winds had given them wings.
“Hey there,” she said.
Thomas paused, slowly turning. She was looking right at him.
“Hello,” he said with a question mark.
“You always look like you’re about to be late,” she said with a smile. “Chin down. Face to the ground. Rushing like there’s a time clock ticking in the background.”
Thomas felt the familiar blush rising from deep in his soul all the way to his cheeks. He shifted the heavy satchel from one shoulder to the other. Though his legs felt as heavy as iron, he moved toward her, reaching out with his other hand. “Thomas,” he said. “Thomas Rhodes.”
“I know.” She set her own book on the bench and pulled her long, dark skirt closer to her body, patting the seat beside her. “Want to sit for a moment?”
He surely did.
He noticed her fingertips were brushed with ink, similar to his own after hours of writing papers. An open wicker basket rested on the ground beside her. Thomas pushed aside every anxious thought as he took his place beside her. She smelled like sunshine and vanilla.
He had noticed Molly Byrne the first week of school. Though the esteemed medical university opened the door to female students decades earlier, the numbers were slim: one or two females in each graduating class. Societal pressures were high in the overwhelmingly male environment. The women seemed to fade into the background with their long-sleeved, high-necked blouses, ankle-to-mid-calf wool skirts, and dark stockings. Though hazing was prohibited for all students, hazing had many faces and the females absorbed prejudice, mockery, and a higher bar of acceptance, but Thomas couldn’t help but notice that she was different. Modest as any, but her spirit was colorful. She ignored fellow students’ pointed looks, immersing herself in the assignment. In that first lab, the professor ignored her raised hand, but when the discussion was open, she joined in, demonstrating a quick mind.
“You aren’t from here,” she said, reaching into a small basket and pulling out a thick sandwich wrapped in parchment. She handed him half and he eagerly accepted.
“Just over the river,” he said. “Covington, Kentucky.”
She shook her head. “Before that.”
“I’ve been in Covington since I was 7,” Thomas said, “but I was born in China.”
“I knew there was something special about you.” She smiled.
As if blushes were kisses, he wished he could wipe the stain from his face. He had chosen not to share his story with anyone, not even his two roommates, but he felt it coming from his lips, as natural as breathing. “My mother and I escaped China during the height of the Boxer Revolution.”
“Just you and your mother?”
Thomas nodded. “I had a brother, William. He died in the plague. My father, Joseph, was supposed to be with us, but he left the protection of the Embassy to find our friends who were in danger. We waited for him for weeks, but received word that he had died, so we had no choice but to flee.”
Molly’s face appeared crestfallen. “He died? I’m so sorry. And your brother too.”
“Except my father didn’t die.” Thomas took a bite of the delicious sandwich. A chunk of ham. Homegrown tomatoes, sliced razor thin. Mayo that nearly dripped on the front of his shirt. The bread was white and fluffy, nearly melting in his mouth. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “We were home for several weeks when we received a letter. He was presumed dead, his body left on the street. A kind merchant discovered he had a faint pulse and rescued him, taking him back to his own quarters and hiding him while he recuperated. Eventually my father came home to us, much changed, but alive. I’ll never forget that day. My mother was on the porch. I watched from the window as she sprinted down the drive, her skirts clutched in both hands. She threw herself in my father’s arms, and they both tumbled to the ground in a wash of tears and joy. He was an emaciated giant of a man, but he was alive.”
Thomas felt the heat creep back into his cheeks. He barely knew this girl. He had shared too much, too soon, but Molly gently placed her fingers on his sleeve, like a butterfly landing. “I can’t even imagine.”
“Why did you ask me to sit with you?” he asked.
“I thought you might need a friend.”
Thomas skipped his next class, something he had never risked before. For the next half hour, he and Molly talked. Her laughter was contagious. Her blue eyes, matching his own, were filled with mirth. He longed to know more about this Irish beauty.
For the first time in years he felt something stir. It reminded him of his deep talks with Dr. Wong. The sweet delectable dough of Mahua. Of vibrant colors and fireworks in the sky at the New Year.
It felt like home.
She felt like home.
© Suzanne Eller, copyright, 2026 - do not reproduce or use in any format without permission of the author.
Book Club Questions
Thomas says he has not felt at home for years, even though he has lived in Kentucky since childhood. What do you think truly makes a place feel like “home?” Is it geography, people, memories, culture, or something else?
Have you ever experienced a season where you felt caught between two worlds?
Thomas carries vivid memories of China, from its language and food to its friendships and traditions. How do our early experiences continue to shape our identity, even after our circumstances change?
Molly stands out because she quietly refuses to let prejudice define her, despite being one of the few women in medical school. What qualities do you admire in her after this first meeting?
What do you think first draws Thomas to her beyond her appearance?
The chapter ends with the powerful statement, “She felt like home.” What do you think Thomas means by that? Can another person ever become “home” for us, or is home something we must first find within ourselves?
Home. Being needed isn't it. Neither is being integrated with the routines. I guess "belonging" is the word that covers it.