Brody helps Robert inside while I stand by, trying my best to be helpful without getting in the way.
The interior is dated—wood paneling, worn hardwood floors, furniture that’s seen better days—but clean. Organized. Lived-in.
Not the chaos I expected from Brody’s description of his father’s drinking.
Just…a house where someone’s been trying.
“Couch,” Robert says. “Can’t deal with stairs right now.”
Brody gets him settled. Pillow, blanket, TV remote within reach, and with every passing moment, I’m feeling more and more useless. So I do the only thing that makes sense to me. I head to the kitchen and start rummaging.
The kitchen is small. Galley-style. White cabinets that could use a fresh coat of paint. Brody’s head pops through the door a moment later, brow cinched. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for hot chocolate.” I open another cabinet. “Found it!”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I know.” I keep stirring. “But it’s hot chocolate. Universal comfort food. And also, I don’t know what else to do with my hands right now.”
He almost smiles.
Almost.
“Thank you,” he says quietly, his head resting on the doorjamb. “For coming. For staying. For—” He stops. “For not running away screaming.”
“The night’s not over yet.”
That gets a real smile. Small, but real.
“How is he?” I ask.
“Embarrassed. In pain. Trying to pretend he’s fine.” Brody steps farther into the room, leaning up against the counter. “Standard Dad behavior.”
“You can’t control what other people do,” I hear myself say. “You know that, right? His choices aren’t your responsibility.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He’s quiet for a long moment.
“I feel like I’ve been trying to fix him since I was fourteen,” he says finally. “Since my mom died. Hasn’t worked yet. But I keep trying anyway.”
My chest aches. “That’s not fixing. That’s loving someone even when it’s hard.”
He looks at me. Something vulnerable in his expression. “When did you get so wise?”
I shrug. “Sunday? Just plagiarizing my pastor.”
“Well, your pastor’s smart.”
I pour three mugs of hot chocolate, hand one to Brody, and pick up the other two. “Come on.” I nod toward the door.
Robert is grimacing when we enter, trying to adjust his position on the couch. Clearly struggling with the sling.
Brody sets his mug down.
“Here.” He reaches down. Helps him reposition. Adjusts the pillow.
