Phoebe is half-asleep before the movie menu even finishes loading. Aiden settles beside her without hesitation, one arm braced along the back of the couch as it belongs there.
Like this is how it should’ve always been.
I hover for a second, leaning over to straighten the blanket's edge and adjust the pillow under her head. They’re small, unnecessary corrections I can’t quite stop myself from making. I ball my hands into fists, willing myself to still.
She’s fine—Aiden has watch for now.
My mom pads in from the kitchen, coffee mug in hand. She stops beside me, quietly taking in the scene.
She doesn’t intervene. Only observes.
“Looks like you’ve got help,” she says quietly.
I meet her gaze. “I do.”
She watches as Aiden adjusts the blanket around Phoebe’s face, baby hairs growing damp as her fever tries to break again. Concern paints his handsome face, but he tries to sit back and watch the television.
When Mom looks back at me, I don’t expect what I see there. I expected a lecture, or “here’s ways you could probably do what you’re doing, but better”. Instead, it looks an awful lot like recognition.
“You were up a lot last night,” she says. “Early this morning.”
“It was both of us,” I tell her. “We made a schedule.”
Her expression doesn’t change much, except for a slight softening. “Good.”
There it is—that soft gold star I’ve been chasing my whole life. Do the right thing, need nothing, keep everyone else steady, and you get to be the “good” one.
It’s not a lecture or a word of caution. Just one statement, heavy with the weight of approval and expectation.
She gestures toward the kitchen with her mug. “Walk with me? I need a refill.”
I hesitate, glancing back down at Phoebe, then follow her.
Everyone is still asleep, or Carter slipped out while we were gone to head to the slopes. The house is quiet this morning, but it’s even quieter here, like the walls are bracing with me.
She sets her mug down, leans against the counter, and studies me in a way that makes me feel about twelve years old again.
“You look steadier,” she says. “Tired. But steadier.”
At least she didn’t suggest a new face cream, or eye serum, or underage patches she saw on an advertisement.
“That almost sounds like a compliment.” It probably leans toward snarky, but I was aiming more for cautious.
“It is,” she says gently. “You’ve been carrying everything alone for a long time.”
I swallow and give a weak shrug. “I’m good at it. I’ve got systems.”
She gives me a look. One that says, “Oh, this again.”
“You always have,” she says. “Even when you were little, if something went sideways, you’d brace yourself and everyone else at the same time.” Her mouth twists. “We let you do it, too. You were our easy one. We didn’t worry about you as much as we should have.”
Something tightens in my chest. “Someone had to.”
“I know.” Her voice softens. “But you don’t have to anymore. I’m pretty sure if something goes sideways, he’ll try to be one step ahead.”
I glance back toward the living room. Aiden’s there, Phoebe tucked into his side, like he’s perfectly aware that he’s holding something precious.
Ten years ago, we talked about the pressures we felt as oldest children. The compulsive need to live up to unspoken expectations and the need to constantly check off those invisible boxes. The way to always strive for a better version than the last.
