Instead, the house felt calm.
The light that came through our bedroom curtains was pale and soft, the kind of morning light that makes everything look gentler than it is. Ethan rolled over, blinked at the clock, and let out a slow breath that sounded almost like relief.
“So,” he said quietly, voice rough with sleep, “what do you want to do today?”
I turned my head toward him and stared for a second at the familiar lines of his face, the little crease between his brows that deepened when he was thinking. There was no judgment in his expression. No fear. Just a steady kind of love.
“French toast,” I said, surprising myself with how normal it sounded.
Ethan smiled, small and warm. “French toast it is.”
Downstairs, Maya was already awake. She sat at the kitchen table with a mug of tea she wasn’t really drinking, both hands wrapped around it like it was something to anchor herself. She looked up when I walked in, and her eyes went straight to my face, searching.
I didn’t make her ask.
“We’re staying home,” I said.
Her shoulders lowered, just a fraction. She nodded, like she’d been holding her breath and didn’t even realize it.
Ethan cracked eggs into a bowl, the shells making quick, sharp sounds against the rim. The kitchen filled with the smell of cinnamon and butter, the sweet warmth that belongs to mornings when no one is in a hurry. The radio murmured in the background, a low wash of music and chatter. Outside, birds hopped along the porch railing, careless and confident.
Maya sat on a stool and watched Ethan cook with the same careful attention she used when she painted. I could see her trying to pretend she wasn’t thinking about the wedding, wasn’t imagining Tessa’s dress, the ceremony, the photos that would be posted later. The shape of her mouth held itself in a neutral line, as if she’d trained it not to tremble.
“Want to paint?” I asked.
Her eyes flicked up. “Maybe,” she said.
We ate at the table in the sunroom, where the blinds were half open and sunlight fell in pale stripes across the floor. The air smelled faintly of acrylic paint, the lingering trace from Maya’s last project. She pushed her plate away after a few bites, then stood and walked to her easel without a word.
She chose a canvas that had already been primed, blank and bright. She set it on the stand, adjusted it, then stood back like she was listening for something inside herself.
I watched her for a moment, and the thought came sharp and unwanted: she shouldn’t have to be this composed.
Seventeen-year-olds are supposed to be messy. They’re supposed to sulk, to snap, to cry too loudly and then laugh too hard. Maya was too practiced at folding her feelings into neat corners.
She dipped her brush into water, then into paint, and the first stroke across the canvas was confident. Blue, deep and thick.
Ethan slid his arm around my waist and leaned down to whisper into my hair. “She’s okay,” he murmured.
I nodded, but my throat tightened anyway.
We spent that day in the gentle quiet of our own life. Ethan watched a game on TV with the volume low. I read a book from cover to cover, losing myself in someone else’s problems for once. Maya painted for hours, the brush making soft rasping sounds as it moved across the canvas. At one point she put her earbuds in and bobbed her head slightly to whatever was playing, her movements loose, almost free.
There were moments when I forgot about the wedding entirely.
And then, in the late afternoon, my phone buzzed.
A photo.
Tessa in white, smiling wide, bouquet held high, her new husband beside her. Rachel with her kids, my parents in the background, all of them dressed up and gleaming.
The caption read: Couldn’t have done it without family. ❤️
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