My mom nods, satisfied, like she’s solved something important.
“Good,” she says. “You always worried too much. Even as a boy.”
Ken snorts quietly. “Pathetic.”
The word hits like a bruise I never stopped protecting.
After lunch, my mom grows tired in that sudden way that still catches me off guard. One minute she’s animated, the next her shoulders slump, her focus drifting. She moves toward the couch, and Emery rises immediately, sitting beside her and letting my mom lean against her shoulder.
I watch as Emery listens to a story I’ve heard a hundred timesabout a road trip to Duluth, and a diner with the best pie she’s ever had. She laughs in the right places, asks questions, and doesn’t correct my mom when the details begin to blur.
The sight of it hits me hard enough that I have to look away.
This—this—is what care looks like. Not control, or endurance, but presence.Patience.
My dad corners me while they’re distracted, his voice dropping into something meant to feel confidential.
“You sure about this?” he asks.
There’s no concern in it: the old man couldn’t give two fucks about me, really. It’s just… full of doubt.
“Yes,” I nod.
“She complicates things.”
“So did Mom,” I reply flatly.
His jaw tightens.
“That’s not the same.”
“No,” I say, meeting his gaze. “But it is.”
He studies me for a long moment, eyes sharp, trying to find the boy he used to intimidate into compliance.
I don’t give him that satisfaction.
“Just don’t lose yourself,” he says finally, failing at passing it as advice instead of a warning.
I think of all the years I spent shrinking—learning to repress instinct, desire, softness—because nothing I did was ever enough.
I think of how I learned restraint before I ever learned want.
“I already did,” I say quietly. “I’m finding something better.”
When we leave, he claps a hand on my shoulder—hard, not affectionate.
I shrug it off the second we’re out the door.
The drive home is quiet, but it isn’t empty. Snow drifts lazily across the road, catching the headlights and dissolving into soft flashes of white. The sky has settled into that deep indigo that only comes after a full day of gray, the kind that makes the world feel hushed and smaller, like it’s holding its breath.
Emery sits beside me, her coat still zipped high, hands tucked into the sleeves and keeping warmth close. For a long while, she just watches the passing lights, her expression thoughtful and unguarded in a way she rarely allows herself when she’s working.
I don’t rush the silence. It feels earned.
Eventually, she turns slightly in her seat, voice low and careful, as if she doesn’t want to disturb something delicate.
“Your mom is wonderful,” she says. “She’s… still there. Very much.”
