Page 131 of Pick Me Up On Tuesdays

The hospital air still clung to me. Sterile. Cold. Even at home, I couldn’t shake it.

I sat at the kitchen table, wading through a mountain of paperwork like it would anchor me to reality. Police reports. Incident statements. A fresh stack from the trauma counselor the police insisted I see. My pen hovered, hesitating at every question that asked how I felt.

Like I had a clue.

Across from me, my mom filled her own forms, her handwriting a little shakier than usual. Her eyes stayed glued to the pages, but I could feel her presence—quiet, protective, still processing the fact that her monster of a husband had returned only to be pinned by a quarterback with a glowing forehead. Because, of course, that’s normal now.

When the silence cracked, it wasn’t with words. It was the sound of mutual exhaustion. Of unspoken memories surfacing like bloated corpses in a lake.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, not looking up. “For not knowing what he really was. For not seeing it.”

I didn’t answer right away. I just stared at the line that asked me to describe the nature of the attack.

“He changed, Mom. It wasn’t your fault. Whatever he became… it wasn’t him anymore.”

She finally looked at me—and in that single glance, something shattered. A tear slipped from the corner of her eye,tracing a slow path down her cheek. It wasn’t just a tear; it was a memory surfacing. A silent scream from the past. I saw it in her gaze—the reawakening of pain long buried. Every cruel word, every insult spat like venom, every bruise left in places no one could see. The way my stepfather treated us—it had all begun to crumble like a cave collapsing from within.

Without thinking, I moved toward her. My arms found their way around her trembling frame, and I held her close, pressing my hands gently against her back as if to keep her from falling apart.

My own tears, stubborn and long-contained, broke free. I wasn’t sure why it happened then, or why it had to be in that moment—but somehow, it felt like the right time. Like the universe had cracked open just wide enough for me to cry my trauma out and be okay for doing so.

I don’t remember the sound of the door opening. I don’t recall hearing footsteps. But suddenly, there he was—my dad. My real father. He stepped in quietly, like he had always belonged, like time hadn’t passed and pain hadn’t settled. His arms wrapped around us both, steady and warm, like a lighthouse finally guiding lost ships home.

And in that embrace—there was warmth. There was safety. For a moment, the weight of everything lifted. It didn’t erase the past, but it made the present feel bearable. This was a new beginning. Our pain didn’t vanish, but it didn’t define us anymore. Here we were—me, my real mother, and the father I had yearned for. I didn’t dare ask for more. This was enough. This was perfect.

Chapter 41: The Weather Might’ve Changed

Just as the emotion threatened to pull me under again, a knock echoed from the door—a perfectly timed interruption, like the universe once again deciding to keep me from spiraling too far into the abyss.

“Okay, okay, you’re smashing me, Dad,” I half-laughed, sniffing as I gently pulled away and made my way toward the door, grateful for the small escape.

Joy and Shun.

Because of course they’d show up. Best friends, nosy gremlins that they are.

“Clark!” Joy’s voice rang out as the door opened without waiting for an answer. “I brought snacks and inappropriate humor!”

Shun gave a quiet nod behind her, holding a small box—probably something helpful and practical, because she’s Shun.

My mom smiled as they entered, as if Joy and Shun were her long-lost daughters. She greeted them with hugs, offered juice like this was some sitcom, and then waved them off toward my room.

They barged in like a storm dressed in hoodies and concern.

I was already sitting on my bed, legs pulled up, staring at nothing in particular.

Joy plopped beside me. “So. Ocean-boy Ethan, demon, and some light trauma. Sounds like a

Tuesday.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t.”

Shun sat cross-legged on the floor. “We can talk about something else. Or nothing.”

“No, it’s fine.” I rubbed my face. “He saved me. That’s the part I can’t stop thinking about.”

Joy tilted her head. “That, and the part where he said you’re his mate?”

I blinked at her. “You—how did—?”

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