We maintained our routines: Friday film nights, flapjacks on exam mornings, and an embrace before exiting the front door, even if they acted like it made them cringe.
When they were accepted into the dual-enrollment initiative, a state program allowing high school juniors to gain university credits, I sat in the parking area after the welcome session and sobbed until my vision blurred.
We had accomplished it. Following all the struggles and all the sleepless nights… following every missed dinner and overtime shift.
We had succeeded.
Right up until the Tuesday that broke everything apart.
It was a gloomy afternoon; the sort where the clouds hang low and dense, and the breeze smacks the glass like it’s trying to find a way inside.
I returned from a back-to-back shift at the restaurant, drenched right through my jacket, my socks making squishy sounds inside my work shoes. It was that freezing dampness that makes your joints throb. I pushed the door closed behind me, dreaming only of fresh clothes and a warm cup of tea.
The thing I wasn’t prepared for was the quiet.
Not the standard quiet playing of tunes from Leon’s bedroom or the chime of the microwave warming up something Miles neglected to finish earlier. Simply silence — heavy, peculiar, and deeply unsettling.
They were both planted on the sofa, next to each other. Motionless. Their frames were rigid, their shoulders broad, and their hands rested in their laps as though they were bracing for a memorial service.
