Page 28 of The Silence Between

Ten years since high school. Ten years of mornings exactly like this one.

The bathroom mirror revealed what those years had done—still lean but harder now, lines cutting deeper around my eyes than any twenty-eight-year-old had a right to wear.

In the kitchen, I moved through familiar patterns, starting coffee and assembling lunches: turkey sandwich with extra mustard for Diego, vegetarian wrap for Mari who'd recently declared meat “environmentally unconscionable,” cream cheese and strawberry jam for Sophie who remained steadfastly eight years old in her preferences. The refrigerator, adequately stocked after yesterday's paycheck, hummed in the quiet apartment.

Not abundance, but not hunger either. A victory of sorts.

“Morning,” Mari's voice came from behind me, her footsteps nearly silent on the worn carpet. At twenty, she'd grown into a young woman I sometimes barely recognized—no longer the frightened child of a decade ago but someone with sharp intelligence in her eyes and the particular confidence that came from surviving what should have broken her.

“Hey,” I replied, pouring her coffee without asking. Two sugars, splash of milk—some routines never changed. “Sophie still asleep?”

“Dead to the world. I had to physically roll her over to stop the snoring.” Mari accepted the mug with a grateful nod. “Diego's up but hasn't emerged from his cocoon of blankets yet.”

“The appointment's at two-fifteen,” I reminded her. “Can you get Sophie from after-school club? I'll take Diego straight from his session with the school counselor.”

“Got it.” She pulled out her phone, adding a note to her calendar. Our shared digital schedule kept the household functioning—three color-coded work schedules for me, school activities, medical appointments, bill due dates, all mapped with the strategic planning of a military campaign.

Mari glanced up from her phone. “The science fair is next Thursday. Sophie's freaking out about her volcano.”

“It'll be fine. We'll work on it this weekend.” I checked the calendar on the refrigerator, mentally calculating how to fit volcano construction between Saturday's double shift and Sunday morning's plumbing call for Mrs. Hernandez.

“Diego's meeting with his counselor is about getting him into the right grade level, right?” Mari asked, her voice lowered even though he wasn't in the room.

I ran a hand through my hair and nodded. “Yeah.”

My gaze caught briefly on an unopened letter from Riverton Community College propped against the fruit bowl. My application for night classes sat in limbo, a tentative step toward resuming long-deferred education plans. Two courses per semester was all I could manage—all our budget and my schedule could accommodate. A ten-year degree plan, assuming nothing went wrong.

A dangerous assumption in our world.

“Is that the college letter?” Mari asked, following my gaze. “You should open it.”

Before I could respond, Sophie bounded into the kitchen, curls wild from sleep, Cookie Monster pajamas rumpled despite being almost too small for her thirteen-year-old frame. “I'm starving! Like, actually dying of hunger. My stomach thinks my throat's been cut.”

“Dramatic as always,” Mari muttered, but her hand reached automatically to smooth her sister's hair.

“Breakfast in two minutes, drama queen,” I said, turning to the stove. “Tell Diego it's almost ready. He needs to eat before we head to that counseling appointment.”

As I flipped pancakes while simultaneously quizzing Mari on her community college chemistry formulas, the letter remained unopened, future possibilities crowded out by immediate needs. The life I'd built existed entirely in the present tense—no space for past regrets or future dreams, only the constant now of responsibilities met and crises averted.

By 7:45 AM, I was deep into my shift at Water's Edge Diner, moving between tables with mechanical movements born of eight years' repetition. The morning rush brought the usual crowd—factory workers grabbing coffee before the day shift, nurses coming off night rotation at Riverton Memorial, elderly couples splitting breakfast plates while stretching social security checks.

“Coffee refill, Leo?” Mr. Jenkins asked, holding up his cup without looking away from his newspaper.

“Got you,” I replied, already reaching for the pot.

As I poured, my mind divided itself with practiced skill—one part present and pleasant with customers, another calculating tips against this month's unexpectedly high electric bill, a third planning how to squeeze Diego's medication refill between jobs tomorrow.

“Earth to Leo,” said a familiar voice. I blinked to find Tasha Williams sliding into a booth, her five-year-old daughter Zoe already reaching for the crayons I kept in my apron pocket specifically for her.

“Hey, stranger,” I said, the words warming with genuine pleasure. Tasha had been one of the few constants through the years—from high school classmate to friend to emergency childcare provider when hospital shifts left her needing help with Zoe.

“The usual?” I asked, already writing down their order: coffee black with two Splenda for her, chocolate chip pancakes shaped like Mickey Mouse for Zoe.

“You know it.” Tasha yawned, her dark hair pulled into the messy bun that signaled an overnight shift at Riverton Memorial. “Just got off. Four car accidents and a kidney stone. Fun times in the ER.”

“Sounds like a party.” I handed Zoe her crayons and a blank placemat. “How's the new supervisor working out?”

“Better than expected. Hey, did you hear about the new English teacher they hired at the high school? Supposed to be some hotshot who published a book or something.”

---