"Hey," I say softly.
He exhales like the word hurts. "Hi."
I search his face, trying to read the quiet between us. "You’ve been... quiet."
"I know." He nods once, but it’s heavy. "I keep thinking about that night. About how you didn’t get to say goodbye. And how that’s... my fault."
My heart stumbles. "Brooks—"
"If you’d answered your phone," he says, the words breaking just slightly, "maybe you would’ve made it in time."
I push back from the table and rise, not out of frustration but to be near him. To stop the spiral. I reach for his hand and wrap my fingers around his. He doesn’t pull away. Not yet.
I wait a moment, choosing the right words. Not to comfort him, but to free him.
"He was already gone," I whisper. "There was nothing we could do. Not you. Not me."
For a brief moment, the guilt subsides. Because there was nothing we could have done. By the time we would have gotten the phone call, Dad had already passed.
Brooks stares at the floor, jaw clenched. "Still feels like I stole something from you."
"No," I say, firmly now. "What you gave me that night wasn’t stolen time. It was comfort. It was something I needed. Don’t let grief rewrite it into guilt. If you walk away from me with that story in your head," I whisper, "I’ll lose you twice."
His eyes flicker to mine. I see how badly he wants to believe me. But pain clouds the space between us.
Then, he clears his throat. "I take it you’re leaving."
"The day after tomorrow."
A beat passes. His fingers slip from mine.
He tries for a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. "If you need a ride to the airport..."
"I have to return the rental car," I remind him, managing a smile of my own. "But thank you."
He nods.
But neither of us moves.
And neither of us says the thing we’re both thinking. That maybe this is the last time we’ll stand like this. Close. Still tethered to something we don’t have the words to name.
When I finally get home, the house is dark. Still.
It feels like something’s been scooped out of it. Like all the air, all the warmth, left with him. With Dad.
The recliner’s still angled toward the TV, the red cup in the cabinet like he just stepped away.
I walk down the hallway, each step heavier than the last, my chest tight with grief I don’t know how to carry.
I stop outside the master bedroom door and knock, just once. Lightly.
"Mom?" My voice catches. "Please?"
Silence.
I press my palm flat against the wood, desperate for something—anything. I used to do this when I was little. After the fights. After the slammed doors. I used to wait and wait and wait for her to open up and choose me.
"I need you right now," I whisper as tears slide down my cheeks. "I don’t have anyone else."
