The house was too clean, too polished, too different from the home I had grown up in. My father’s new wife, Julia, had decorated every room with neutral tones and minimalist furniture, nothing like the warm, chaotic comfort of the house I had shared with my mother. I barely spoke to Julia, ignored my father whenever possible, and acted as if my half-brother, Ethan, didn’t exist. I wasn’t here to be part of a family. I was here because I had nowhere else to go.
My mother had been my world. After the accident, that world had shattered, and I had been forced to move into a life that didn’t feel like mine. My father had been little more than a distant figure throughout my childhood, a man who sent birthday cards and called on holidays. Now, he expected me to slip seamlessly into his life, as if grief weren’t a gaping hole inside me.
I spent most of my time in my room, avoiding conversations, avoiding the warmth Julia tried to offer. But one night, a sound broke through the quiet—a wailing cry, high-pitched and relentless. It took me a moment to realize it was Ethan.
I rolled over, squeezing my eyes shut, willing him to stop. But he didn’t. His cries pierced through the house, raw and desperate. I heard Julia’s footsteps down the hall, her tired sigh as she tried to soothe him. I waited, hoping he would calm, but he only grew more distressed.
Something in me shifted. Without thinking, I threw off my blankets and padded down the hall. Julia stood beside the crib, rocking Ethan gently, exhaustion heavy in her eyes. She glanced at me, startled.
“I can take him,” I muttered, looking away.
Julia hesitated, then stepped aside. I reached into the crib, lifting Ethan into my arms. He was warm, small, and trembling from his crying. I held him close, rocking him gently, whispering nonsense under my breath. Slowly, his cries quieted. His tiny fingers curled into my shirt.
Julia watched me, her expression unreadable. “You’re good with him,” she murmured.
I didn’t answer. Instead, I held Ethan a little tighter.
The next morning, Julia set a plate of waffles in front of me. “I figured you could use some comfort food,” she said with a small smile.
I stared at the waffles, at the butter melting into the syrup. It was what my mother used to make for me on bad days.
I hesitated, then picked up my fork. Maybe this wasn’t home. Maybe it never would be. But for the first time since moving in, I ate breakfast with them. And maybe, just maybe, I could try.
