She stood there, tall and pressed and composed in a way that always made me straighten my spine without realizing. Hair swept back. Lips painted like she never got caught off-guard. One brow raised.
"Really?" she said, eyes flicking between me and Dad. "You're wasting time with that shelf again?"
Dad didn't look at her. He just pressed the bracket a little tighter against the wall.
"It's crooked," he murmured.
"It's always been crooked," she said, stepping into the garage. "But sure, let's focus on that instead of, oh, I don't know, our son's tuition. The bills. Real things."
My stomach twisted. She wasn't yelling. Mom rarely yelled. Her words were soft. Clinical. Like surgical cuts.
"I already sent the payment this morning," Dad said. Still not meeting her eyes.
"With what money, Mark?" she asked, folding her arms. "What money are you using these days? Your fantasy stocks? Advice from that idiot friend of yours?"
He flinched, just barely.
"I'm handling it," he said.
"No," she said, "you're hiding from it."
She turned to me then, her expression softening a notch. But it was the kind of softness that felt like it was being rationed. Like love was a currency and she only had so much to spare.
"Ash, go inside," she said. "You shouldn't be involved in this."
I opened my mouth. Closed it again. The screwdriver in my hand felt heavier than it should've.
Dad finally spoke. "He's not involved, Claire. He's helping."
"Helping?" she laughed once, cold and clipped. "You think dragging him into your little project in this dusty box counts as help? He needs guidance, not… escape."
My heart was beating too loud. I didn't want to be in the garage anymore. But I didn't want to leave him either.
So I stood there. Between them. Like a cracked shelf trying to hold up the whole damn wall.
Mom sighed, already done with the conversation. She turned to go but paused at the door.
"Come inside, let's have dinner."
Then, like a ghost in heels, she was gone.
Dad exhaled slowly. Not loudly. Just… like something inside him had folded in half.
He didn't say another word. Just handed me the screwdriver again. But his hands were shaking now.
And suddenly, I hated that shelf. Because no matter how many times we fixed it, this house would still lean sideways.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
I washed up and went to the dining room. Mom was there, as always, setting the cutlery like we had guests. We didn't. No one came here.
Everything had to be perfect. The tablecloth ironed, forks and knives aligned, candles unlit but in place. It looked like a picture from a magazine no one would ever read.
She glanced up, barely.
"You're late," she said. In her world, everything had a set time and place. I wondered, where do I fit in, in that perfect world?
I stood there a second, thinking maybe, for once she'd look at me and see something besides the smudge on my shirt or the shadow under my eye.
But she just smoothed down the edge of the table runner.
"You shouldn't wear those shoes inside. The carpet… "
"Right," I muttered, cutting her off before she could turn my existence into another smudge on her perfect world.
We all sat down together. Quiet and focused. Like emotionless robots.
Josh suddenly climbed onto his chair like it was a stage.
"Wanna hear my super funny joke?" he declared, eyes wide and hopeful. "What do you call a fish wearing a bowtie? …Sofish-ticated!"
He let out a loud, wild laugh. Way louder than the joke deserved. I think he was hoping if he laughed hard enough, the room would join in.
It didn't.
Dad didn't even look up. Mom kept eating like she hadn't heard him. The silence returned, heavier than before.
Josh's smile faltered, just a tiny crack. He sat back down with a shrug, stirring his food into a swamp of mashed potatoes and ketchup.
"Guess no one likes funny stuff anymore," he mumbled. Then, louder, "Ash thinks it's funny, right?"
I gave him a small nod. Not because the joke was actually funny, though it kind of was, but because he needed it. Because he was trying, in the only way he knew how, to make this place feel less… wrong.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
After dinner, I escaped to Grandma's room. The air there always felt softer, like it remembered how to breathe.
I sat with Grandma in her room while she knit something blue and soft. I didn't ask what it was. I just liked the rhythm of her hands and the sound of the needles clicking like a soft heartbeat.
"You look thoughtful," she said.
"I guess," I replied. "Do you think... all families are supposed to be loud?"
Grandma smiled faintly. "Not loud, necessarily. Just... alive."
I nodded. I didn't know how to say it, but that was it. Lena's house had felt alive. Ours felt paused.
Grandma always reminded me how hard my parents worked for my sake. And I was grateful. I never questioned their absence, never resented the way their attention slipped past me like I wasn't there.
Not until I met Nate.
He worked hard too. He wasn't born wealthy, and had to fight for everything he built. But somehow, he never had to ignore Lena to do it.
Grandma handed me a half-finished scarf. "Try it."
"I don't know how."
"You'll learn. You're good at quiet things."
That night, lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling and imagined what it would be like if someone asked how my day was. If someone noticed the way I held my breath around certain things. If Josh didn't have to act like a clown to keep the silence from swallowing us whole.
It hasn't always been this way. I still remember the early days of my life when Dad used to tell me bedtime stories while Mom's gentle hand would stroke my hair till I drifted off.
I didn't want a perfect family. Just a warm one. A loud one. A Lena Carter kind of family.
Instead, I had the quiet house.
And for now, I just kept my voice down so I wouldn't wake the ghosts.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
My phone buzzed once on the mattress beside me.
Lena.
Lena: Dad says you're the reason we ran out of pancakes 😅
Lena: Also, Ash… it was nice having you over. You felt like part of the noise.
Lena: Good Night, poet boy.
I didn't reply. Not yet. I just reread it a few times until my chest stopped aching so much.
"Part of the noise," huh?
I smiled. Just a little.
For the next few years, I remained part of the noise in the Carters' house, and they remained my safe haven.