Page 21 of The Silence Between

“A little higher on the left,” Mari directed as Leo and I struggled with a small artificial tree, its plastic branches sparse but still festive once decorated.

Diego raced around us with a string of lights, tangling himself more than helping. “Can we put presents under it now?”

“Not yet, mijo,” Leo said, ruffling his hair. “Christmas is still two weeks away.”

Sophie sat cross-legged on the floor, carefully coloring a paper ornament, her tongue stuck out in concentration. She was still young enough that the magic of Christmas remained untarnished by awareness of their financial realities.

I watched Leo with his siblings—patient, loving, firm when needed—and felt something crack open in my chest. Over the past months, I'd grown attached to these children who accepted my presence without question.

They'd become family to me in a way I hadn't anticipated.

“Ethan, you're daydreaming again,” Mari observed, handing me another paper snowflake to hang. “Leo says you do that a lot.”

“Does he?” I glanced at Leo, who suddenly became very interested in untangling a string of lights.

Mari nodded sagely. “He says your head is always in the clouds. But he says it with that face, so it's not a bad thing.”

“What face?” I asked, fascinated.

“You know,” she said with the exasperation only she can muster. “The soft one. Like when Mom shows us old pictures from before.”

The door opened without warning. Gloria stood in the doorway, home hours early from her convenience store shift, her tired eyes widening as she took in the scene: her children decorating with a boy who clearly didn't belong in East Riverton, much less their apartment.

“Mamá!” Sophie exclaimed, breaking the frozen moment. “Look what we're making! Ethan knows how to make the lights blink!”

Gloria's gaze moved from Sophie to me, then to Leo, who stepped forward with forced casualness. “Mom, this is Ethan. From debate team. He's helping with Christmas decorations.”

“Ms. Reyes,” I said, extending my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

She took it after a moment's hesitation, her palm calloused from work, her handshake brief. “You are from West Riverton,” she said, not a question but an observation.

“Yes, ma'am.”

Her eyes moved between Leo and me, taking in details I hadn't realized were visible: how we stood slightly closer than casual friends might, the comfortable way Sophie climbed into my lap to show me her drawing, the protective stance Leo had automatically taken beside me.

“Diego, Sophie, come help me in the kitchen,” Mari said suddenly, with the intuition of a child raised to read adult tensions. “We should make hot chocolate.”

When the younger children had followed her from the room, Gloria addressed Leo in rapid Spanish. Though I couldn't understand the words, the tone—questioning, sharp—and Leo's defensive responses, his reddening face, made the nature of the conversation clear.

It ended with Gloria sighing deeply, switching back to English. “You will stay for dinner,” she said to me, not quite a question. “We are having enchiladas.”

The invitation was complicated—acknowledgment and assessment wrapped together, a mother's careful evaluation of her son's choice.

“I'd like that,” I said. “Thank you.”

Dinner revealed the complex dynamics of the Reyes household. Gloria alternated between maternal warmth and distant preoccupation, occasionally rubbing her back where the old factory injury still troubled her. Leo managed everything—serving food, reminding Diego to use his napkin, cutting Sophie's enchilada into manageable pieces—with the unconscious skill of long practice.

The children gauged the adults' moods with subtle glances, relaxing when Gloria laughed at Diego's joke about his teacher, tensing when her hands trembled slightly while reaching for her water glass.

When Gloria excused herself briefly from the table, Mari leaned across to Leo. “Does he know about Dad?” she whispered urgently.

The question referenced Miguel's latest disappearance, now stretching into weeks with no contact. Leo's nod of confirmation surprised me—not the information itself, which he'd shared weeks ago, but the realization that his trust in me extended to family secrets usually kept from outsiders.

After dinner, as I helped clear dishes, Gloria caught me alone in the small kitchen.

“My son,” she said quietly, “has too many responsibilities already.” Her eyes, so like Leo's, held mine steadily. “Don't become another one.”

The warning, delivered without anger but with maternal certainty, struck home. Whatever was happening between Leo and me, it couldn't add to his burdens. Couldn't take more than it gave.

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