I smile and start toward Andi, but Brandon gets there first. He slips an arm around her shoulders and rests his head gently against hers. “It’s beautiful, Andi. Just like you. Mom and Dad love it, sweetheart,” he says.
A trace of annoyance rises in me. I step forward, nudge Brandon aside, and shoot him a glare that says, “Hands off.” He just grins, unfazed. I slide my arm around Andi and pull her close. “How many times can I say it? You’re amazing, Andi.”
Her beautiful smile lights up her face as she says, “Luke, you did such a great job at the youth center, with the landscaping and directing the boys. Think you can take over here and make sure it gets done the way your parents want it?”
I start to answer, but my dad answers for me. “That's an excellent idea, Andi. Linda, why don’t you and the boys here,” gesturing to me, Brandon, and Greg, “divide it up? I have some work I need to finish inside.”
Mom is more than happy to push us around the yard to start working on her dream garden oasis. Andi announces she’ll get the drinks and snacks, and my father follows her into the house. Mom is absolutely thrilled with everything. Even though she keeps saying she can’t accept allthis from Andi, she hasn’t slowed down in giving orders on exactly how she wants every piece installed or where it should be placed.
The thing is, Andi, she will never miss the money she spent on my mom’s little slice of heaven. Everything she buys is top of the line—no expense spared—but when it comes to gifts, Andi never thinks about the cost. She thinks about the person. I’ve never seen her check a price tag. If she knows one of us needs or wants something, she just gives it, no questions asked.
After I started training with Mack, she surprised me with a complete set of new boxing gear—not the cheap knockoffs, but the best brands: gloves, headgear, mouth guards, a speed bag, shorts, tanks, boxing shoes, and running shoes. All of it was neatly packed into a huge gym bag she’d picked out herself. One day, it was just there in my apartment. She never mentioned it, and when I tried to pay her back, she looked genuinely hurt. I’ve learned to thank her in other ways, small gestures here and there, but I know now that helping others is what makes her happiest—just like at the youth center.
Her generosity today doesn’t surprise me. What does surprise me is how quietly she does it, never seeking praise or attention. She wouldn’t have wanted me to make a fuss, tell my mom, or spoil the surprise. Andi amazes me. Despite everything she’s been through, she’s chosen to beloving and giving. Where most people would grow cold, her childhood struggles have made her kinder.
Dad has been distant again today. I haven’t had a chance to talk to him alone to ask what’s wrong. Right now, there's no way I could get any information from my mom because she's too excited about her yard project. If I walk away from the “crew” she assigned me, I know I’ll never hear the end of it. Mom is scary when she’s mad, even to a grown man, and I don’t want to be the one to catch the brunt of her fury.
Just ask the poor guys in her “crew” right now. They’re looking longingly at my crew and Brandon’s crew, wondering how they drew the short straws in this game of chance. My guys are chuckling as they listen to Mom chastise her team for putting the pavers down the wrong side up. She won’t listen when they try to explain that there is no wrong side up on pavers. She’s determined to have the perfect patio, down to the very last concrete block.
After two hours in the unrelenting sun, sweat trickles down my back, and my shirt clings damply to my skin. My mouth is dry, my tongue thick and heavy, and every breath tastes of dust and cut grass. I scan the yard, squinting against the glare, searching for any sign of Andi—or the cold drinks she promised. The air shimmers above the concrete, and I notice the other workers wiping theirbrows, lips cracked, eyes darting hopefully toward the house. Not a single cup in sight.
Andi never forgets things like this. Her kindness is as dependable as sunrise; she always makes sure everyone is taken care of. The absence of her and the drinks gnaw at me. A knot of unease tightens in my stomach, prickling beneath my ribs. This isn’t like her. She wouldn’t just leave us to bake in the heat.
I start across the yard toward Brandon, the grass crunching under my boots, each step heavier than the last. The pit in my stomach deepens, and with every stride, a chill creeps up my spine despite the sweltering afternoon.
“Hey, have you seen Andi lately?” I ask Brandon.
He thinks for a second before replying. “No, I haven’t, actually. She was going to get drinks a while ago. That is strange," he says absently, looking around the yard. "Hey, where's Mom?"
Now that he said that, I realize I haven’t heard Mom arguing with her crew in a while. "Maybe they're both in the kitchen making us something to eat," I say, but even I don't believe it.
Brandon obviously doesn't either, because he gives me a look that says,Yeah, right. “You think Mom would leave all this to go inside and cook for us? Uh, no, I don’t think so.”
We tell our crews to take a break and head for the back door together. The moment I step into the kitchen, a cold, unnatural stillness hits me. The overhead lights are too bright, casting sharp, accusing shadows across the counters. The tray of empty cups sits abandoned, the coffee congealed and bitter, as if time itself has stopped. The air is heavy, permeated with the scent of burnt coffee and something sour—maybe milk left out too long. There’s no food, no laughter, no sign of life. Only the echo of my own heartbeat, thudding in my ears.
Brandon and I freeze, exchanging a look that’s half question, half warning. The silence is so absolute it feels like a scream. Then, from down the hall, I catch the faint, muffled sound of voices—strained, broken, leaking through the closed door to my dad’s home office. My skin prickles. Every step toward that door feels like wading through wet cement.
I push open the swinging door. It creaks, the sound slicing through the hush like a blade. I brace myself for the usual—my parents bickering, my mom fussing. Instead, I step into a room so charged it’s suffocating. The air is thick, electric, as if a storm is about to break.
My father sits at the head of his conference table, his posture rigid, jaw clenched so tight I can see the veins standing out in his neck. In front of him, a manila folder with Andi’s name scrawled in black marker. My mother isbeside him, hands twisted together so hard her knuckles are bone-white, silent tears streaming down her face, her breath coming in shallow, shuddering gasps. The room smells faintly of her perfume, now soured by fear.
At the far end of the table, Andi is folded in on herself, shoulders hunched, as if she’s trying to make herself invisible. Her hair falls forward, hiding her face, but I can see her hands shaking while she clutches a stack of photographs. She doesn’t even seem to notice we’ve entered—the only sound is her ragged breathing and the slight, wet sniffling from my mother.
“You could’ve just told me you needed it,” Andi says, her voice scraped raw, barely more than a whisper. “I would’ve given it to you. Sam, you don’t know what this could do to you. Please don’t do this.” Her words hang in the air, heavy and desperate, and I feel them settle on my skin like a bruise.
My mind scrambles, panic rising.Given him what?
“What the hell is going on?” I demand, my voice cracking, the taste of dread metallic and bitter on my tongue.
My father stands slowly, every movement deliberate, as if he’s been rehearsing this moment for years. The chair scrapes against the floor with a jarring screech. “Luke,” he says, his voice cold and controlled, “did you know thatAndi was committed to a juvenile mental institution at fifteen for attempting to murder her foster father?”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. The room tilts, the walls closing in. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out everything else. My hands go numb.
“She’s unstable,” he continues, and I realize with a sick twist that he believes it. “These are court documents. Photographs. Medical reports. You need to see what you’re dealing with.” He thrusts the photos at me, the paper rough and cool against my sweating palms.
I flip through them, my vision tunneling. A younger Andi, gaunt and pale in a hospital gown, with orderlies restraining her. Another image—her face twisted in terror or rage. Then the court document: Juvenile assault. Attempted homicide. Remand to a mental facility until the sixteenth birthday.
My mouth is dry, my throat closing. I can barely breathe.
