By the time I make it to the kitchen, the smell of fresh waffles fills the air. Mom is darting between the stove and the waffle maker, her movements rushed but purposeful. She flips scrambled eggs in a skillet, then swivels to pour more batter into the waffle iron. It’s the same scene I’ve walked into a thousand times, but today it feels like a cruel performance.
Right now, Dad—the supposed love of her life—is lying in a hospital bed, alone, his future hanging by a thread. She should be there with him, holding his hand, telling him it’s going to be okay. But instead, she’s here, making waffles as if nothing’s changed. As if everything isn’t about to change forever.
Something hot and angry stirs in my chest. I don’t bother softening my tone. "What are you doing?"
Mom doesn’t look up, her hands too busy flipping a waffle onto a plate. "Making breakfast," she replies, too light, almost dismissive. "What are you doing?"
I glance over at Jasper, sitting at the table with a mug of coffee and a folded newspaper, pretending like this is all perfectly normal. My mouth falls open in disbelief. "I’m wondering why we’re still doing Waffle Sunday when Dad is in the hospital."
Mom freezes for half a second, a flash of something—guilt, maybe?—crossing her face. Then she busies her hands again, as if moving will make the question disappear. "We have to eat, Elowen."
"There’s food at the hospital, Mom," I snap, the words sharper than I intend.
Jasper lowers his newspaper and rises from the table, stepping between us like a human shield. "Ellie, not now."
My throat burns as the words tumble out. "Please, Mom. Please go see him."
Mom doesn’t answer. Her back is to me, her shoulders rigid as she focuses on the stove. The sound of the eggs sizzling is the only response I get.
Jasper crosses his arms over his chest, his stance firm. "She’s not going to the hospital, Ellie. You know that. And right now, I thinkyouneed some fresh air. Maybe some space."
The betrayal stings, sharp and cold. Jasper taking Mom’s side isn’t just frustrating, it’sinfuriating. He’s supposed to understand. He’s supposed to agree with me. Instead, he’s standing there like some kind of enforcer, making it worse.
"I don’t need space," I bite back, my voice quivering with barely contained anger. "I need Mom to stop pretending this is fine. And I needyouto stop defending her."
"Don’t start," Jasper warns low, but firm. "Not this morning."
I shake my head, incredulous. "We have to stop pretending everything is normal, Jasper. We can’t keep pretending waffles will fix this."
The words are barely out of my mouth when Mom drops the skillet of eggs with a loudclang. The sound echoes through the kitchen, followed by a sharp cry as she backs away, her hands trembling.
Jasper and I both move at the same time. I grab the skillet before it scorches the floor, the weight burning through my nerves as much as the heat. Jasper rushes to Mom’s side, wrapping a steadying arm around her. As I straighten, skillet in hand, the difference between us hits me like a slap to the face. I’m always the one putting out the fires. And Jasper? He’s always the one wiping Mom’s tears.
For a moment, the realization tears through me like a band aid ripping off skin. Maybe this is why I left in the first place.Because I couldn’t be both the fixer and the comforter. And no one ever asked Jasper to carry both. Just me.
Now that I’m back, it feels like the same old roles are snapping into place, whether I want them to or not.
"Mom," Jasper says softly, calm and soothing. "It’s okay. It’s just eggs. We’ll clean it up."
Mom’s hands still shake as she nods, her eyes wide and glossy. She doesn’t look at me, though. Only at him.
I grip the skillet tighter, my knuckles whitening against the handle. "I’ll clean this up," I mutter, more to myself than anyone else. It’s easier to focus on the task than on the gnawing ache in my chest.
As Jasper gently leads Mom out of the kitchen, a warm hand lands on my shoulder. I flinch, spinning around to see Brooks standing there, his expression softer than I expect.
"I’ll help," he says simply, taking the skillet from my hand and walking it over to the sink.
For a second, I just stand there, watching him rinse the pan. I should say thank you. I know I should. But the words stick in my throat, heavy and impossible to swallow. I don’t feel like I belong here. I don’t feel like anyone evenwantsme here.
"It’s going to be okay," Brooks says as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile quiet. He doesn’t look at me, just keeps scrubbing the skillet like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
"No," I finally reply. "It’s not."
Brooks lets out a low whistle, setting the clean pan on the drying rack. "Do you remember the time Jasper and I got in trouble for stealing your dad’s truck and going off-roading?"
I scoff, bending down to scoop up the scrambled eggs from the floor. "How could I forget? You two were fifteen. Neither of you even had a learner’s permit."
He leans casually against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. "After your dad tore us apart for an hour, you said something to me that’s stuck with me."
