CHAPTER TWO — When Her Father Still Lived
Elara
When my father was alive, the world felt stable in a way I didn't know how to appreciate.
Not perfect. Not without problems. But anchored. As though no matter what shifted beneath our feet, there was always something solid to hold on to—someone who would steady the ground again.
My father was that someone.
He woke before everyone else, always. By the time I came downstairs, the house already smelled of coffee and toast, the low murmur of the morning news drifting from the television he barely watched. He stood at the kitchen counter in his usual place, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, skimming through documents with the same focus he gave everything.
"You're up early," he said without looking at me.
"You're always up early," I replied, stealing a piece of toast from his plate.
He smiled, brief and familiar. "Someone has to keep this family running."
He said it lightly, but there was truth beneath it. My father carried responsibility the way other people carried wallets—always present, barely noticed, essential.
My mother joined us a few minutes later, still in her robe, her hair pinned loosely back. She poured herself tea instead of coffee, leaning against the counter beside him. They didn't speak at first. They didn't need to. Years of marriage had taught them comfort in silence.
"Are you coming home for dinner?" she asked eventually.
"Yes," he said without hesitation. "I'll be back before seven."
She nodded, satisfied. Promises like that were never questioned in our house. My father didn't make them lightly, and he never broke them.
Lucas rushed in late, as usual, tugging his jacket on while shoving a piece of toast into his mouth. Aaron followed more slowly, schoolbag clutched to his chest, his brows drawn together in concentration.
"I don't get this," Aaron said, holding out a worksheet. "It doesn't make sense."
My father reached for it immediately, scanning the page.
"It does," he said calmly. "You're just overthinking it."
"That's what you said last time," Aaron muttered.
"And I was right then too," my father replied, amused. "Watch."
They stood there, heads bent together, my father explaining patiently while Aaron listened, nodding slowly as understanding dawned. I watched them from the doorway, something warm settling in my chest.
That was us. Ordinary moments stitched together into a life I thought would always exist.
After breakfast, my father grabbed his coat and keys, already mentally shifting into work mode. I followed him outside, the morning air cool against my skin.
"You've been quiet lately," he said as we walked down the driveway. "Something on your mind?"
"Just… thinking," I said.
He stopped beside his car and turned to face me fully. He always did that—gave people his full attention, as if nothing else mattered in that moment.
"You know," he said gently, "thinking is good. Just don't let it turn into worry."
"I don't worry," I lied.
He smiled like he didn't believe me. "You're allowed to dream, Elara. Bigger than this house. Bigger than me."
"I don't want bigger," I said. "I like this."
He studied me for a moment, his expression softening. "Enjoy it, then. But don't be afraid of change when it comes."
Change.
At the time, the word didn't frighten me. It sounded distant, theoretical—something that happened to other families, in other houses. Not us.
He had a way of making the house feel alive, as though it responded to him. Mornings began with the sound of his footsteps before the rest of us stirred, the soft clink of a mug against the counter, the radio tuned low so it wouldn't wake anyone. He remembered small things—how my mother liked her tea, how Aaron hated when his shoelaces were tied too tight, how Lucas needed reminders disguised as jokes. When he spoke to us, he listened with his whole body, leaning in, eyes focused, as if nothing outside our walls deserved his attention more than we did.
Sometimes, in the evenings, we sat together in the living room without purpose. My mother read. Lucas scrolled restlessly. Aaron sprawled on the floor with his schoolbooks. I curled into the corner of the couch, my feet tucked beneath me. My father sat among us, not at the center, never demanding space, yet somehow holding us together. He reached for my hand absentmindedly, thumb brushing over my knuckles like a habit formed without thought. I didn't pull away. I never had to.
He noticed when I grew quieter, when the weight of expectation pressed too hard. He never asked directly. Instead, he'd offer small comforts—an extra portion at dinner, a shared look across the table, a quiet question hours later when the house slept. "You don't have to carry everything," he told me once. I believed him, because he carried it for us.
At night, after everyone had gone to bed, I sometimes heard him moving through the house, checking doors, straightening shoes by the entrance, adjusting the curtains. Not because anything was wrong—but because this was how he loved. Through attention. Through routine. Through making sure that when we closed our eyes, the world could not reach us.
I thoughtHe carried our lives in ways I only understand now. He remembered payment dates and school deadlines, doctors' appointments and parent meetings, all without writing them down. When money was tight, he adjusted without complaint—cutting back on himself first, buying fewer things for his own comfort so we never had to notice the difference. I never once heard him say we couldn't afford something. If he said no, it was always gentle, always temporary. "Later," he promised. And later always came.
He showed up. That was his greatest gift. He attended school events even when he was exhausted, sitting through assemblies he didn't care about just to be seen when we looked into the crowd. He waited in the car during long appointments with my mother, refusing to leave in case she needed him. When Lucas got into trouble, my father didn't raise his voice—he talked, slowly, until anger had nowhere to hide. When Aaron cried over small failures, my father knelt in front of him, steady hands on small shoulders, teaching him that mistakes were not endings.
For me, he was quieter, more careful. He trusted me with responsibilities but never allowed them to become burdens. When I took on too much, he noticed before I admitted it. He reminded me to rest. To be young. To let him worry so I didn't have to. Sometimes he pressed a folded bill into my palm without explanation, just in case. Sometimes he left notes—short, uneven handwriting—on the counter or beside my bed. Proud of you. Don't forget to eat. I'll be home early.
He made plans that stretched far beyond himself. He spoke of futures as if they were certain, as if nothing could interrupt them. College applications. Trips we would take. Renovations we would do when things slowed down. He talked about growing old with my mother like it was a given.
And because he believed in those tomorrows so completely, I did too.
I didn't see the protection for what it was.
I only knew that under his care, we never felt afraid.
those nights would last forever.
I thought safety was permanent.