Page 27 of The Silence Between

Three words that threatened to unravel weeks of careful emotional containment. I looked away, focusing on a water stain on the opposite wall.

“Is this really it, Leo?” he asked quietly. “Both the guardianship and... us? Is this final?”

I couldn't offer the false hope that would be crueler than clean breaking. “You need to go to college, build your life. I need to be here for them. There's no middle ground where everyone gets what they need.”

“I still don't believe that.”

“I know,” I said, the simple acknowledgment containing multitudes. Belief was a luxury my circumstances didn't allow.

Before we parted, Ethan pressed something into my hand—a book of poetry we'd once shared, passages marked with sticky notes bearing his handwriting. Even without opening it, I knew what they would say—words about separation without ending, about stories continuing on different paths.

“I still believe there could have been another way,” he said, fingers lingering against mine during the transfer.

I didn't answer, the lump in my throat making speech impossible. We separated without formal goodbye—Ethan toward the courthouse exit and the future waiting beyond Riverton, me toward the apartment where my siblings waited, my responsibility, my choice.

At the door, I allowed myself one final glance back, memorizing the straight line of his shoulders, the way sunlight caught his hair, the familiar gait I could recognize from a hundred yards away. Then I turned and walked in the opposite direction, each step an exercise in endurance.

* * *

May sunshine beatdown on the graduation ceremony, turning the polyester gowns into personal saunas as we sat in neat alphabetical rows on the football field. From my position in the R section, I could just see the back of Ethan's head in the W's, his tassel occasionally catching the light when he moved.

The ceremony felt surreal, disconnected from my daily reality of night shifts, guardianship responsibilities, and adjusted expectations. When my name was called, I walked across the stage mechanically, accepted the diploma, moved the tassel as instructed. The formal acknowledgment of completion felt hollow against the education I'd received outside classroom walls—in hospital waiting rooms, Social Services offices, and late-night negotiations with bill collectors.

From the stage, I spotted my siblings in the audience—Mari holding my graduation cap that I'd passed to her while lining up, Diego clutching the program, Sophie perched on a neighbor's lap, waving frantically when she saw me. Mom was noticeably absent, having checked herself out of rehab against medical advice three days earlier. Her whereabouts remained unknown, though I'd filed the requisite missing persons report, familiar with the procedure from previous disappearances.

After the ceremony, families spilled onto the field in celebration. I navigated through the crowd with my siblings in tow, dodging well-meaning teachers offering congratulations and avoiding the photographer selling commemorative photos we couldn't afford.

“We need to go,” I reminded Mari, checking my watch. “My shift starts at five.”

She nodded, already understanding the practical concerns that outweighed celebration—the evening shift I needed to work, a school form requiring signature for Diego, the rent increase notice waiting at home.

Before we reached the parking lot, I felt it—the weight of someone's gaze on my back. I turned to find Ethan looking at me across the dispersing crowd. He stood with his parents, their expressions proud if somewhat reserved after his decision to pursue creative writing instead of political science.

Our eyes met and held for three heartbeats—acknowledgment, regret, unspoken farewell. Then I deliberately broke the connection, turning away toward my siblings, my responsibilities, my chosen path.

As we walked to the car, Mari slipped her hand into mine in a rare demonstration of affection. “You did it,” she said simply.

I squeezed her hand, reflecting that “it” was both less and more than anyone else understood—graduation accomplished against odds, family preserved through sacrifice, heart broken but surviving.

The Toyota we were walking toward wasn't much to look at, a decade-old Corolla with rusty wheel wells and a dented rear bumper, but it represented almost two years of grinding work. I had saved every dollar possible from my after-school janitorial shifts at the community center, weekend landscaping jobs for neighbors, and the occasional house painting gig when school breaks allowed. The down payment had emptied my savings account completely.

I had gotten my license just two months ago. The driving lessons had come from a community program for low-income students that my guidance counselor had found for me. The car itself belonged to the uncle of one of my landscaping clients, who had agreed to a monthly payment plan when he heard about my situation with my siblings. Each time I turned the temperamental ignition, I reminded myself that this battered vehicle meant independence, meant one less thing to worry about, meant I could get my siblings where they needed to go without relying on unreliable public transportation schedules.

As we drove away from Riverton High for the last time, I glanced in the rearview mirror. The school grew smaller in the distance, along with the life I might have had, the person I might have become, the love that arrived at exactly the wrong moment in the story.

But ahead of us—in the apartment that wasn't much but was ours, in the future we would build from whatever fragments life had given us—possibility remained. Different than I'd once imagined, but real nonetheless.

The road stretched before us, leading home.

6

WEIGHT OF SEMICOLONS

LEO

TEN YEARS LATER…

The darkness yielded reluctantly to 5:30 AM, my phone alarm vibrating quietly beside my pillow. I silenced it before the sound could disturb the apartment, then lay still for exactly one minute, allowing myself the only luxury I could afford: sixty seconds of stillness before the day's momentum claimed me.

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