Page 77 of The Silence Between

“You asked.” I settled beside him, our shoulders almost touching in the limited space. “That's enough.”

He looked terrible, but in that unfairly attractive way some people manage when they're exhausted. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. His hair stood in tufts where he'd clearly been running his hands through it.

A half-empty mug sat beside him, smelling faintly of whiskey. Not the cheap stuff either. Apparently, some luxuries were worth the splurge, even on a tight budget.

“The kids okay?” I asked, nodding toward the dark window.

“Physically, yes. Emotionally...” He sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. “Diego's shaken up. He's never seen Miguel like that. And Sophie's been having nightmares again.”

The casual use of their father's first name spoke volumes. Not Dad, not Father, but Miguel. Like referring to a problematic neighbor rather than a parent.

“And Mari?”

“Handling it like she handles everything. Too well. Taking care of everyone else while pretending she doesn't need taking care of herself.” His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “Wonder where she learned that.”

I wanted to reach for him but kept my hands in my lap. This fragile truce between us felt too important to mess up with an unwelcome shoulder pat that might send him scurrying back into his emotional fortress.

“And you? How are you holding up?”

“I'm...” he started with his standard “fine” response before stopping himself. “Actually, I'm not sure. It's one thing to handle a crisis in the moment. It's another to process what it means for tomorrow, and next week, and the custody review.”

“Your instincts were impressive,” I said. “The way you kept calm, protected everyone.”

“You being there made a difference,” he said, studying my face in the dim light from a distant streetlamp. “Thank you for that.”

“Anytime,” I replied softly. “I mean that.”

Silence settled between us, not uncomfortable but loaded with unspoken meaning. Something had definitely shifted in our careful arrangement of professional distance. My presence here, his invitation to enter private space, created context outside the boundaries we'd previously established. We were officially in uncharted territory now.

“I got accepted to community college,” he said abruptly, the change of subject so sudden I blinked in surprise. “Evening studies program. Business administration. Got the letter today.”

“Leo, that's fantastic.” My genuine pride in his achievement warmed my voice. “You're going to accept, right?”

He laughed without humor. “Terrible timing. Right before a custody review? Adding evening classes to three jobs and family responsibilities? They'd use it as evidence I'm spreading myself too thin.”

“Or as evidence you're creating stability through education and career development.” I shifted to face him more directly. “Your siblings are older now. The circumstances aren't what they were when you first took custody.”

“Still four people in a two-bedroom apartment. Still juggling work schedules around childcare. Still one crisis away from collapse.” He picked up his mug, staring into it as if it might contain answers rather than alcohol. “And now Miguel's back, making noise about parental rights he surrendered years ago.”

“Do you think he genuinely wants reconnection with the kids?”

“I think he wants what addicts often want—to feel better about themselves without doing the actual work recovery requires.” The assessment came without bitterness, just weary recognition of patterns repeated too many times to count. “Claiming he's being kept from his children is easier than acknowledging why supervision is necessary.”

A car alarm blared briefly in the distance, then fell silent. Somewhere down the block, voices raised in drunken argument. The night sounds of East Riverton provided constant reminder of the precarious environment from which Leo had worked so hard to protect his siblings. The neighborhood's soundtrack was decidedly different from the West Riverton ambient playlist of sprinklers and distant tennis games.

“What will you do?” I asked finally.

“What I always do. Whatever necessary to keep them safe, together, and moving forward.” He sighed, setting down his mug. “But honestly? I'm tired, Ethan. So fucking tired.”

The admission carried weight beyond physical exhaustion. Ten years of constant vigilance, perpetual responsibility, continuous navigation of systems designed for traditional families while maintaining stability through sheer force of will. The toll was evident in the slump of his shoulders, the lines around his eyes, the careful way he held himself as if afraid relaxing might mean collapse.

“When was the last time someone took care of you?” I asked quietly.

He glanced at me, startled by the question. “That's not how this works.”

“Maybe it should be.”

“I don't have that luxury.”

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