Page 23 of The Silence Between

“What's your New Year's resolution?” he asked, breath visible in the cold air.

“I don't make those,” I said. “Setting yourself up for failure.”

“Oh, come on. One thing. One promise for the new year.”

I considered for a moment, careful to commit only to what I knew I could fulfill. “I'll always be honest with you,” I said finally. “Even when it's hard.”

Something in my tone must have revealed more than I intended, because he turned fully toward me, eyes searching mine. “That sounds ominous.”

“Not ominous. Just... real.” I squeezed his hand. “What's yours?”

“To work toward a future where we don't need to hide,” he said, no hesitation. “Where I can hold your hand walking down Main Street and nobody bats an eye.”

The conviction in his voice made my chest hurt. How could I explain that secrecy was the least of our obstacles? That my fear wasn't about being seen together but about the fundamental incompatibility of our lives?

The first gray light of dawn broke over Riverton as we kissed, sealing promises neither of us could guarantee. Below us, the river dividing East from West caught the pale morning sun, its surface momentarily unified before the day would once again reveal its separate currents.

* * *

February arrivedwith wet snow and bitter winds that cut through my secondhand jacket as I walked to the diner for my night shift. School, siblings, work, repeat—the rhythm of my days had narrowed to survival basics, leaving little room for anything else. Even Ethan had become both comfort and complication, his constant support a light I gravitated toward while knowing it illuminated all the ways our lives refused to align.

I poured coffee for the late-night regulars—truckers, hospital staff working graveyard shifts, insomniacs seeking human contact. My movements were automatic, my mind elsewhere. At home, Mari was handling bedtime for Diego and Sophie. Mom had been unusually coherent lately, following her prescribed medication schedule instead of doubling doses, even talking about applying for jobs. Small improvements that I tried not to invest too much hope in, having seen this pattern before.

Dad remained gone, his longest absence yet. The eviction threat loomed closer with each passing week as our partial rent payments barely kept the landlord at bay. And Sophie's cough, the one I couldn't afford to have properly treated, had gotten worse despite the over-the-counter medicine I'd been giving her.

“You're a million miles away, kid,” observed Hank, a regular who drove the overnight route to Portland. “Refill when you have a second.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled, reaching for the coffee pot.

My phone vibrated in my pocket—unusual for this hour. My stomach tightened as I pulled it out, checking the screen: Mari.

Mari

Mom fell. Need you home NOW.

My blood went cold. I showed the message to Diane, the night manager who'd known our family situation even before I started working here. She nodded grimly. “Go. I'll cover.”

I ran the entire seventeen blocks home, lungs burning in the frozen air, scenarios playing through my head in brutal succession. Did she fall, or “fall”? Was it an accident or another overdose? Were the kids okay? Did they see?

Flashing lights greeted me at our apartment building. I took the stairs two at a time, finding our door open, voices spilling out into the hallway.

Inside, paramedics knelt beside my mother's unconscious form on the living room floor. Empty pill bottles lay scattered near her outstretched hand. The scene was horribly familiar—three previous overdoses had taught me the choreography of crisis.

“Leo!” Mari's voice drew my attention to the kitchen, where she stood with Diego and Sophie, trying to shield them from the scene. Sophie's face was tear-streaked, Diego pale with shock.

“What happened?” I asked, pulling them all into a quick hug while keeping my voice steady.

“She seemed fine at dinner,” Mari said, voice small despite her effort to stay composed. “Then she got a call. I don't know who. After that, she took her pills. A lot of them. When she started slurring her words, I put the little kids in the bedroom and called 911.”

Diego looked up at me, eyes huge in his small face. “Is Mama going to heaven like Mrs. García's cat?”

“No, buddy,” I answered automatically. “The doctors are helping her.” I turned to the nearest paramedic, a woman checking my mother's vital signs. “How is she?”

“Responsive to pain stimuli. Breathing on her own. We're taking her in now.” She glanced at the children, then at me, lowering her voice. “This address is in our system. Third call this year?”

The observation carried judgment I had no energy to challenge. I nodded, focusing on immediate necessities.

“I need to go with her. Can you give me a minute to arrange care for my siblings?”

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