When she finally drifted off, I slipped an arm under her and lifted her carefully, carrying her to her bedroom.
I lay her down gently and pull the blanket over her.
She looks smaller when she sleeps — worn out, fragile in a way she never lets us see.
A tear track glistens on her cheek. I wipe it with my thumb, the way she used to do for me.
Then I step out and pull her door closed, soft as I can.
I lean against the hallway wall, exhaling a long, shaky breath.
God. This year is worse.
Worse than last year. Worse than the year before.
Mom's falling apart faster, and I don't know how to fix it.
I don't know how to fix her.
I make my way to my room, shutting the door behind me. The quiet hits me hard — too heavy, too cold.
The house feels wrong without Dad.
It has for five years.
But tonight, it feels like someone carved that hole deeper.
I collapse onto my bed, sitting there for a beat before reaching for the small framed photo on my nightstand. Me and Dad on the ice after my first peewee championship. I'm ten, grinning so wide my face looks like it might split. Dad's arm is around me, his smile bigger than mine.
I stare at it until my vision blurs.
"Hey, Dad," I whisper, voice cracking instantly.
The silence in the room is suffocating, and my chest pulls tight. I press my thumb over the edge of the frame, tracing Dad's face without thinking.
"I'm trying," I manage, swallowing hard. "I'm really trying down here."
My throat burns. My eyes sting.
"You know I skate for you, right?"
The words come out uneven, breathy — like they're fighting their way out.
"Every game day... every time I lace up... it's for you. Because you were the one who taught me how to skate. You're the reason I ever touched a stick in the first place. You were there at every practice, every early morning rink time, every stupid tournament in the middle of nowhere. You believed in me before I knew how to believe in myself. So now—every shift I take, every pass, every goal—I do it like you're still in the stands watching. Like I'm still that little kid looking up at you, trying to make you proud."
A tear slips down my jaw before I even realize I'm crying.
"I keep pretending it gets easier," I whisper. "But it doesn't. Not really. It still feels like someone just ripped you out of my chest and left this stupid... fucking hole."
I choke on a harsh breath. My vision blurs again.
"I just... I want to talk to you," I whisper, my voice barely holding together. "I want your stupid advice. I want to tell you everything you've missed."
I swallow hard, the words scraping out of me.
"Dad... I finally got the girl."
A shaky laugh slips out. "Caroline's my girlfriend. Finally. Took me long enough, right?"
