Avery leaned back in her chair. “Mom’s still upset,” she said eventually. “She hasn’t said your name much, which is how I know it’s bad.”
I nodded once. “I figured.”
“She needs time,” Avery continued. “Not because she hates you. Because she doesn’t.”
That landed harder than I expected.
“She still loves you,” Avery said, softer now. “And honestly? That’s what makes it worse for her. Knowing she raised someone she loves who could still hurt another woman like that.”
I swallowed, jaw tightening. “I don’t expect her to forgive me.”
“I know,” Avery replied. “But don’t disappear either. Don’t punish yourself by vanishing. That doesn’t help anyone.”
I looked down at my plate. “I’m trying not to fall apart.”
Avery reached across the table and squeezed my wrist briefly. “I know. That’s why I’m checking on you. You might be older, but you’re still my brother.”
I nodded, the gesture small.
Later that night, I lay in bed in the guest room, phone resting on my chest, one of Haille’s photos still open on the screen. She was laughing in it, mouth open wide, eyes bright, her joy unfiltered and untouched by adult mistakes.
I turned the phone face down and stared at the ceiling.
I had spent most of my life believing strength meant control. Control over situations. Over outcomes. Over people I loved, because I told myself it was protection.
Now, strength looked different.
It looked like waiting. Like restraint. Like accepting that love didn’t give me ownership, and guilt didn’t give me permission. And every day I managed not to cross that line, not to call Elena directly, not to demand reassurance, not to insert myself where I no longer belonged.
I counted it as a small victory.
—?—
Elena
That night, the house was already submerged in silence. My parents had long since gone to their room. The television that usually accompanied the evening was turned off, replaced by thesoft hum of the air conditioner and the small, steady rhythm of breathing beside me.
Haille slept next to me, her body half-turned toward mine, one hand clutching the hem of my shirt as if afraid I might disappear if she let go. Her hair was still slightly damp from her bath, her breathing even, her face peaceful in the way only children who haven’t yet learned pain can be.
I stared at the ceiling, letting my thoughts drift without direction, when my phone vibrated softly on the nightstand.
The name appeared on the screen.
Judy.
My chest tightened without warning.
I hesitated for a fraction of a second before answering, lowering the volume so it wouldn’t disturb Haille, then shifting slightly to the edge of the bed.
“Hello?” My voice was low, careful.
“E–Elena...”
Her voice on the other end sounded hesitant, like someone who had prepared her words for too long and forgotten how to begin.
“Yes, Judy. It’s me.”
There was a pause. I could hear her breathing, faintly unsteady.
