Page 31 of The Silence Between

“It's not about what you deserve,” I said. “It's about what they need. Stability. Consistency. People who show up.”

Her face hardened slightly. “We're still their parents, Leo.”

“Biologically, yes.”

“That's not fair. We were sick.”

“I know that,” I said, working to keep my voice even. “Addiction is a disease. I've sat through enough Al-Anon meetings to understand the difference between the person and the illness. But understanding doesn't erase consequences.”

“So you're just keeping our children from us? Playing God with our family?” Her voice rose slightly, drawing glances from nearby tables.

“I raised them,” I said quietly, the simple truth sharper than any accusation. “I was sixteen when you both chose drugs over us. I'm not making decisions based on what you want, or what he wants, or even what I want. Every choice is about what they need.”

Mom's eyes filled with tears—genuine pain I couldn't dismiss despite everything. “We made terrible mistakes, Leo. Unforgivable ones. But they're still our children. You're still our son.”

“Let me think about it,” I conceded finally.

It was less than she wanted but more than I'd planned to give. She nodded, recognizing the negotiated truce for what it was.

As we parted outside the coffee shop, she reached out and touched my forearm lightly.

“You did good with them, Leo,” she said, an acknowledgment so long awaited it almost hurt to finally hear. “Better than we ever could have.”

I nodded, unable to form words around the complicated tangle of emotions her statement evoked. As I watched her walk away, shoulders hunched against the cold, I wondered what it cost her to admit that truth and what it would cost me to finally accept it.

I arrived home emotionally drained, only to find a text from my night shift supervisor. They needed me to come in early to cover for another janitor. The compounding pressure of the day created a rare crack in my composure.

Alone in the kitchen while the kids did homework in the living room, I gripped the edge of the counter, breath coming shallow and quick. The weight I carried daily suddenly felt unbearable, crushing in its constancy.

“Leo?” Mari's voice grounded me. She stood in the doorway, concern etching her features. “You okay? You look pale.”

I straightened, rebuilding my walls with practiced speed. “Fine. Just tired. I need to go in early tonight.”

She studied me with eyes too perceptive for sixteen. “I can handle things here. Make sure Diego finishes his social studies and Sophie practices piano. We'll be fine.”

“I know you will,” I said, and meant it. The stability I'd built for them had become a foundation they could stand on, even in my absence. A foundation my parents had never provided for me.

Maybe that was victory enough.

7

UNFINISHED SENTENCES

ETHAN

Morning light sliced between the blinds of my Seattle apartment, cutting geometric patterns across the hardwood floors. I stood at the window, coffee cooling in my hand, watching the city twenty floors below wake like a mechanical beast. Delivery trucks. Commuters. The relentless forward motion of a place that never truly slept.

Behind me, cardboard boxes formed their own cityscape across my living room. My life reduced to labeled containers, ready for transport. The walls—now stripped of framed book covers and literary prizes—revealed lighter rectangles where success had hung, their absence more honest than their presence had been.

Three novels. Two major awards. Reviews in every publication that mattered. The external markers of having “made it” as a writer.

So why did the apartment feel like a museum to someone else's achievements?

My phone vibrated against the granite countertop, “MELISSA CALLING” illuminating the screen. My agent, with her perpetual energy and New York efficiency, never respected West Coast morning hours.

“Please tell me you've finished those revisions,” she said without greeting.

“Good morning to you too, Melissa.”

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