Page 30 of The Silence Between

“We can implement some informal accommodations,” she offered. “Extended time on tests, preferential seating, breaking assignments into smaller chunks. I'll speak with his teachers.”

I nodded, signing the consent form with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd signed countless forms for countless officials. “What about the Wright Foundation scholarship? I remember they fund educational assessments for families that qualify financially.”

Ms. Wilson looked surprised. “You know about that program? Yes, they do offer grants, though the application process is quite competitive.”

“We'll apply,” I said, no room for debate in my tone. “What else?”

By the time we finished, Ms. Wilson had given us contact information for three support programs, a list of free tutoring resources at the community center, and a referral to a sliding-scale psychologist who specialized in learning differences. Not enough, but more than we'd had walking in.

Twenty minutes later, we left with a folder of information, potential resources, and my firm promise to investigate every avenue of support. The hallways were filled with students changing classes.

“Are you mad?” Diego asked quietly once we reached the front steps.

“About what?”

“About me being... broken. About needing special help and costing more money.”

I stopped walking, turning to face him fully. Despite being sixteen, there was still so much vulnerability in his eyes. “Look at me, D.” I waited until his eyes reluctantly met mine. “You're not broken. Your brain works differently than some other brains. That's it.”

“But you have enough to deal with already.”

“Hey,” I said, keeping my voice low but firm. “Everyone's story has different punctuation. Sometimes we need semicolons instead of periods.” My fingers found the faded tattoo on my wrist. “A semicolon means the sentence could have ended, but it didn't. The author chose to continue. That's what we do—we continue, no matter what.”

“Even when it's hard?” he asked, a moment of rare vulnerability from a teenager who usually masked his insecurities with sullen silence.

“Especially then.” I squeezed his shoulder, respectful of his growing independence while still offering support. “Now go catch the bus. I've got to get to the Henderson job. Pasta for dinner tonight, and don't give Mari a hard time about her college applications.”

As I watched him jog toward the bus line, backpack bouncing against his shoulders, his tall frame still carrying the awkwardness of adolescence, the weight of being both brother and parent settled familiar and heavy across my chest. Not a burden I resented, but one that sometimes left me breathless with its constancy.

* * *

The coffee shopsat exactly halfway between our apartment and Mom's halfway house—neutral territory for our infrequent, often difficult interactions. I'd chosen a corner table where I could watch both the door and the street outside, a habit formed through years of anticipating trouble from multiple directions.

Mom arrived five minutes late, which actually constituted early by her standards. At forty-eight, she looked sixty—her once-vibrant beauty hollowed out by addiction's relentless excavation. Still, ninety days of sobriety had returned some color to her face, some stability to her hands as she unwrapped her scarf.

“You look good,” she said after ordering her coffee, the standard opening to our careful conversations.

“Thanks,” I replied, not returning the nicety because we both knew lies didn't serve us anymore. “Your text said you had news?”

She traced the rim of her mug, a nervous gesture I recognized from childhood. “Your father's back in town.”

The words landed like stones. “Since when?”

“Las week. He's living at the men's recovery center on Pine Street.” She hesitated. “He's six months sober, Leo.”

“After four years of complete silence?” I couldn't keep the edge from my voice. Dad had drifted in and out of our lives like a ghost since I was eighteen, appearing for brief periods of attempted sobriety before vanishing again. But this last disappearance had been the longest - four years without a call, a text, not even a birthday card for the kids. The last we'd heard, he'd followed some construction job to Arizona, then nothing. No explanation, no goodbye. Sophie had been just eight when he left, barely old enough to remember his face without photographs.

“He was in bad shape,” Mom said, her eyes dropping to her coffee. “Worse than before. Ended up homeless in Phoenix for a while, then some church program got him into rehab in California. It took a long time for him to be ready to come back, to face what he'd done.”

I kept my expression neutral, though my hand tightened around my cup.

“That's good for him,” I said carefully. “I hope it sticks this time.”

“He wants to see you. All of you.” Her eyes, so much like Mari's, held a desperate hope I was familiar with. “We both do. A family dinner, maybe? Just to talk?”

“Mom...” I began, the weight of potential disappointment already settling across my shoulders.

“Just dinner,” she pressed. “He's really trying this time. We both are. Don't we deserve a chance to make things right?”

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