The word hung between us, heavy.
I took a slow breath. “Sometimes means enough.”
He rubbed his face with both hands, dragging them down like he was trying to wipe himself clean. “It’s the only time my brain shuts up.”
“I get it,” I said, and I meant it. “But it’s not going to give you peace. It’s going to give you a new problem.”
He stared at the porch floor. “I don’t know how to be a person after this.”
I felt my throat tighten, because it was the same thing I’d said in therapy a hundred different ways.
“You practice,” I told him. “You mess up. You practice again. You let people help you.”
He scoffed. “Like who?”
“Like me,” I said simply. “Like a counselor. Like a support group. Like Marcus if you can handle his personality.”
A tiny, reluctant smile flickered at the corner of his mouth, then disappeared.
I nudged his shoulder gently with mine. “Come inside. Let’s make hot chocolate like we’re eight years old and pretending life is easy.”
He hesitated, then nodded.
Inside, while the kettle warmed water, Ethan watched me measure cocoa powder and sugar. His hands trembled slightly when he picked up a mug.
“Grandma used to make it with a pinch of salt,” he said quietly.
“I know,” I replied. “She said it made it taste ‘real.’”
We sat at the kitchen table in silence for a while, sipping slowly. The shelter was quiet, the kind of quiet that comes from people finally sleeping safely.
Ethan stared into his mug. “Do you ever think Dad was always like this?”
I considered. “No,” I said finally. “I think he became like this. One step at a time. But that doesn’t excuse it.”
He nodded, eyes distant. “Sometimes I miss him.”
The honesty of it hurt.
“I miss the version of him that didn’t exist for long,” I admitted. “I miss the idea of a dad who protects you. Not the man who did what he did.”
Ethan’s throat bobbed. “Marilyn called me.”
My body went rigid. “When?”
“Last week,” he said. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry.”
I stared at him, anger flaring and then dropping into fear. “What did she say?”
He swallowed. “That she still loves me. That she can help me if I ‘stop letting you control the narrative.’”
My hands tightened around my mug. “Did you answer her?”
“I hung up,” he said quickly. “But—” He hesitated. “She left a voicemail later.”
“What did it say?”
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