Page 38 of The Silence Between

“Don't remember,” he mumbled, then surprised me with greater lucidity. “Saw your mother last week.”

My guard, already high, strengthened further. “Where?”

“Community center. She's looking good. Ninety days sober.”

I'd heard that before—thirty days, sixty days, ninety days. Magical thresholds that were supposed to indicate real change but had proven meaningless over years of repeated relapses.

“That's good,” I said noncommittally. “I hope it sticks this time.”

“She wants to see the kids.”

“We've talked about this, Dad.” The word felt foreign in my mouth, unused for so long. “When she reaches six months sober, we can discuss supervised visits. Same as always.”

“She's their mother. You can't keep them from her forever.”

“I'm not keeping them from anyone,” I said, the old argument igniting familiar frustration. “I'm protecting them from being disappointed over and over. From getting their hopes up just to have them crushed when she relapses. Again.”

He looked away, perhaps recognizing the parallel to his own pattern of brief returns and lengthy absences. We sat in tense silence for several minutes, the only sounds coming from monitors and the muffled hospital activity beyond the curtain.

“How's that boy?” he asked suddenly.

“What boy?”

“That one from West Riverton. You never talk about him anymore.”

The question caught me completely off-guard. Miguel had barely noticed my friends even when nominally present in our lives. For him to remember Ethan specifically seemed impossible.

“From the debate team,” he continued, filling my stunned silence. “Smart kid. Came over once to study. I told you he'd help you get into college.”

The memory surfaced slowly—senior year, during one of Dad's brief periods of sobriety, he had come home early from a construction job to find Ethan and me at the kitchen table surrounded by textbooks. He'd been clear-eyed and pleasant, even made awkward small talk before retreating to give us privacy. Later that night, he'd mentioned that “friends like that” would help me get into a good school, break the family cycle.

Two weeks later, he'd disappeared with the rent money, beginning a six-month absence.

“That was a long time ago,” I managed, my carefully constructed compartmentalization faltering. “We lost touch after graduation.”

“Too bad,” he murmured, eyes drifting closed. “He seemed good for you.”

I mumbled something noncommittal and escaped to the hallway, leaning against the wall as memories I'd suppressed for years threatened to break through the surface. Ethan reading poetry aloud on the railroad bridge. Ethan helping Mari with homework at our kitchen table. Ethan's hand in mine, warm and steady when everything else in my life was chaos.

The weight of all I'd carried pressed down suddenly, nearly buckling my knees. I took several deep breaths, forcing the past back into its carefully sealed container.

A passing nurse glanced at me with concern. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I lied, straightening. “Just tired.”

The story of my life in two words.

It was past one in the morning when I returned home from the hospital, expecting to find the apartment quiet and dark. Instead, I discovered Mari sitting on our small balcony despite the late hour, moonlight catching in her dark hair.

“Hey,” I said softly, stepping outside to join her. “Everything okay? Kids asleep?”

She nodded, making room on the narrow concrete ledge. “Sophie was out by eight-thirty. Diego read until about ten, but he's been asleep since then.”

“Thanks for handling things.” I settled beside her, our shoulders touching in the limited space. “You should be asleep too.”

“I’m fine. How's... him?”

We rarely used parental titles for Miguel or Gloria anymore. They had become “him” and “her” years ago, familial designation stripped away by repeated disappointments.

---