“You know who I am,” he says.
“Yes,” Emery replies calmly. “We’ve met. Briefly.”
“And you’re still living in town,” he adds, not a question.
“Yes,” she says again.
The corner of his mouth tightens. “In my son’s house.”
I feel it then—the subtle hum of the bond responding to the pressure, reinforcing,steadying.
I don’t raise my voice, but when I speak again, it carries.
“Ourhouse,” I say.
The silence that follows is dense, layered with years of unsaid things: expectations I never met, instincts I learned to cage instead of understand, and a father who taught discipline but never safety.
My dad holds my gaze for a long moment. Then, finally, he exhales through his nose.
“Hmph,” he says. “We’ll see.”
It’s not approval, by any means, but it’s not rejection, either; and for the first time, I don’t feel like I’m bracing for impact alone.
*
We sit at the small kitchen table, knees nearly brushing beneath the scarred wood, the radiator clicking softly against the cold. My mom chats as if the world is simple again, her voice bright and unburdened, asking Emery about her work, about the team, about where she grew up.
She asks the same question twice without realizing it, then laughs when Emery answers it twice without hesitation.
“I forget things when I’m excited,” my mom says, waving a hand dismissively, like it’s a charming flaw instead of the slow erosion of herself.
“That’s okay,” Emery says gently. “I do that too.”
It’s a small kindness, and it lands like a gift.
I watch my mother closely—how she leans forward when she’s engaged, how her eyes dim for a moment when she loses the thread, then brighten again when it returns.
The light in her hasn’t gone out yet, but it flickers more often now. The gaps are longer. The way back takes more effort.
Some days, she’s sharp and present, making jokes, correcting my grammar, reminding me I always liked my toast burnt. Other days, she withdraws into herself like she’s bracing against weather only she can feel.
She comes back eventually. Just… slower than she used to.
My dad sits at the head of the table, stoic and silent with his arms crossed, his attention sharp but detached. He listens like he’s taking notes, not like he cares. His gaze lingers on Emery too long, assessing in that way he always has—like everyone in the room exists to be weighed and found wanting.
At one point, my mom turns to me, her expression softening with sudden clarity.
“You seem calmer,” she says. “Less… tight.”
She gestures vaguely at her chest.
“You used to carry everything like this.”
I feel Emery’s attention settle on me, steady and patient.
“I am,” I say finally.
It feels strange to admit it out loud. Vulnerable, but true.
