It's funny, the things you start to notice once you realize they're missing.
After dinner at Lena's, I came home with a full stomach and a strange ache I couldn't name. Not in my belly. Somewhere else.
Like a space inside me had been stretched and didn't know how to shrink back.
The house was dark when I opened the door. Dim hallway light flickering like it couldn't decide whether to keep trying.
I could hear the soft hum of the TV from the living room. No laughter. No smells of food still lingering in the air. Just silence, and the low static of people pretending to be happy inside a screen.
I walked past everything and went upstairs. Josh's room door was open, clothes and candy wrappers everywhere like a raccoon lived there. He was lying upside down on the bed, legs up the wall, tossing a stress ball at the ceiling.
Josh yelled, "Took you long enough, nerd!"
I didn't answer. That was just how Josh said hi.
"You look like someone killed your puppy," he said. "What happened? Lena dumped you already?"
I glared. "We're not…, well, never mind."
Josh smirked. "Ah. So you do like her."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
I rolled my eyes, but he tossed me the stress ball, and I caught it without thinking.
"You're welcome," he said, like that solved everything. And in his language, maybe it did.
I dropped my backpack on the chair and sat on my bed for a bit, tossing the ball between my hands. The walls had that strange yellow tint from the streetlight outside, turning everything dull and tired.
A framed photo on the dresser caught the light; Mom, Dad, Josh, and me at the beach years ago. Everyone was smiling, but I could barely remember what that day felt like. The picture looked like proof of something that no longer existed.
I got up and turned toward the garage, half out of instinct. I don't know why, but sometimes when the house feels too quiet, I look for him. Dad.
The door creaked when I opened it, loud in the stillness.
Dad was there. Sitting on the old workbench stool, elbows on his knees, palms pressed together like he was praying to the ground. He was still in his work clothes, though his tie was loosened and his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows.
Dad used to be a financial advisor. Good at numbers, bad at saying no. He helped other people make money while our own accounts got emptier.
Now he just… takes calls sometimes. Helps people file taxes, look over contracts. I don't think they pay him much. I don't think he asks them to.
He didn't look up as I came in.
Just said, softly, "You're back."
I hesitated in the doorway, not sure if I was interrupting something private. Not that he ever said anything personal anymore.
He used to build model planes in this garage. Fix broken things: radios, clocks, once even my bike. But now it was just tools and quiet and him.
"Yeah," I said, my voice barely making it out of my throat. "Lena's dad made pancakes."
He gave a faint smile at that. The kind that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Nice."
A long silence settled between us, filled only by the low hum of the freezer in the corner and the distant bark of a neighbor's dog.
I shifted, then stepped inside, slowly. "You working on something?"
His eyes dropped to the small wrench in his hand. He turned it over once, like he'd forgotten it was there. "Just fixing the shelf. Keeps leaning forward."
I nodded, though there wasn't much to see. The shelf was crooked, sure, but so was everything lately.
Another silence.
Then, softly, he said, "Did you sleep okay?"
The question caught me off guard. It wasn't much. But it was something.
"Yeah," I said. "Better than here."
I hadn't meant it as a jab, but as soon as I said it, I saw the way it landed. A flicker of something in his face. Guilt, maybe. Or something older.
He nodded slowly, staring down at his hands.
"I'm… sorry about that, Ash." His voice cracked halfway through the sentence. "I know it's been… not what it should be. Not what you need."
I blinked.
He never said things like that. He never said much at all.
I didn't know what to say back.
So I just sat down beside him on the second stool. Let the silence return, but let it be a little softer this time. Like a blanket instead of a wall.
We didn't talk again. Not that night.
But he handed me a screwdriver and pointed to the crooked shelf, and for a while, we just worked in the quiet. No yelling. No scolding. Just two people trying to fix something.
And somehow, that made me want to cry more than anything else.
We were halfway through adjusting the shelf. Dad holding it steady, me turning the screw, when we heard the sound.
The sharp click of heels against the tile floor. The rustle of a purse. The sigh of the front door closing behind her like punctuation.
Mom has returned.
Like most days she came home late from the office, which was some high-rise building downtown where she talked in code words like 'market leverage' and 'quarterly outcomes.'
I didn't say anything. Neither did Dad.
We listened as she moved through the house. I imagined her taking off her coat with one sharp tug, checking her watch, looking at the hallway mirror like she could judge the day by how tired her eyes looked.
Then the door to the garage creaked open