“Hello, dear.” She reached up and kissed him on the cheek.
It was a small gesture, domestic, almost insignificant. But it had a way of echoing in me. I wasn’t sure why it bothered me today.
Maybe because this tenderness seemed louder after my loneliness.
He leaned into her touch with a tired smile. “How’d your day go?”
“Oh, you know,” mom sighed, handing him a mug. “The usual. But Claire called earlier, actually.”
My chest tightened.
They didn’t notice, mom kept humming a little under her breath, turning off the stove and wiping her hands on a towel.
“She just wanted to check how Lily’s appointment went,” she went on. “We got to talking about other things… and, well,” Mom glanced over at me briefly, then back at dad. “She mentioned Brandon cancelled on her again.”
A small frown pulled at his brows.
“It’s the third time this week,” she added in a tone that was half sympathy, half irritation. “Honestly, he’s been distant for a while, he was never very present with her to begin with.”
Dad made a low noise of agreement. “Guy works a lot, doesn’t he?”
“That’s one word for it.” Mom snorted lightly, shaking her head. “I don’t think he suits her very much. He’s nice enough but…” She waved her hand vaguely in the air, searching for the right word. “He’s just not… with her. You know? She deserves someone who actually shows up.”
She was right. Claire deserved someone steady.
Something I… hadn’t been.
I leaned back against the wall and stared at the floor tiles because looking at Mom or Dad felt impossible. A tight heat clawed up my chest, burning behind my ribs. That familiar mixture of jealousy and guilt, ugly cousins that always came together, flared sharp enough to sting.
Brandon wasn’t good for her. Everybody seemed to know it but her. And still, I knew I had no right to judge him. No right to want more for her. No right to feel anything at all.
If anyone taught her to settle, it was me.
Mom didn’t notice my internal conflict. She kept fussing with the food, talking to dad about grocery lists and weekend plans. They moved around each other easily, comfortably, slipping into familiar steps they’d practiced for decades.
Dad must’ve noticed something shift in me, because he gave me a quick, assessing glance over Mom’s shoulder. I gave a reassuring smile and walked out before he could ask anything.
I went upstairs, into my childhood bedroom that I’m staying at.
I sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, palms dragging over my face.
The memory of her voice, clear as if she were sitting next to me.
“You make me feel seen.”
Seventeen-year-old Claire.
Sitting cross-legged on the hood of my old truck. Sunlight catching in her hair. Eyes bright with a kind of open-hearted happiness that only teenagers believe, will last forever.
She’d said it like it was the simplest truth in the world.
You make me feel seen.
God.
I pressed a shaking hand to the back of my neck. I could still hear it. Still feel the warmth in her voice. Still see the way she’d looked at me, soft and full of hope.
Now here I was, grown, older, supposedly wiser, yet spiraling like that same stupid boy who had no idea how to treat his girl right.
