“I needed to do something with my hands.” I grabbed a spoon and started scooping dough onto the tray.
“It was either this or scrub the grout with a toothbrush.”
“Nick and I talked, Lee,” he said. “He’s… processing.
He’s confused. He’s trying to be loyal to Sarah without knowing what that actually means.
Mrs.
Hartman says kids repeat the loudest adult in their ear,” he added quietly. I placed another dollop of dough onto the tray. “It means hurting someone who’s standing right in front of him,” I mumbled.
“I know.” Derek paused.
“So we made a deal. For the next two weekends, he and I take over the house.
Chores, meals, everything.”
“Seriously?” I stopped mid-scoop. “If he still thinks you ‘do nothing,’ he doesn’t get the new phone.”
“He apologizes.”
I exhaled, the weight lifting from my shoulders.
“What made you do that?”
Derek looked at me, his eyes were tired from the emotional weight haunting the room.
“Because I see what you do. And I don’t want him to grow up thinking that kind of work is invisible.”
The oven dinged. I opened it, the smell of warm sugar filling the room.
For the first time that day, I felt like I could breathe again.
Two weeks later, we did Waffle Night. It was Nick’s idea.
I laid out every topping I could find: strawberries, bananas, mini marshmallows, sprinkles, syrup, Nutella, and whipped cream. Derek even fried up chicken for his sweet-and-savory love.
Nick stacked his plate high and sank into his chair like a man who had just survived battle.
“These past two weekends were…” he started, then looked down at his waffle. “A lot.”
I smiled into my cup of tea. “They usually are.”
He took a bite, wiped his mouth, and said, “I don’t think I ever noticed how much you do.
You’re just always… doing it.
I’m sorry.”
“I try,” I said softly.
“I still miss my mom, Leah,” he added, voice smaller. My heart pulled. “Of course you do, sweetheart.
You always will.”
He nodded.
“But I’m glad you’re here. Especially because Dad’s terrible at Shakespeare.
Like… really bad.”
Derek pointed his fork at him, syrup dripping. “That’s because I was a math kid.”
Nick grinned, then turned back to me.
“But you make it feel… okay to miss her and still have space for someone else.
That’s what Mrs.
Hartman said in counseling. About making space.”
I felt something swell in my chest. I reached for the Nutella jar, trying not to cry.
“Well,” I said.
“I’m very good at making space, Nick.”
“And I know that Gran was being… horrible,” he continued.
“I just didn’t know how to tell her to stop without hurting her.”
“That’s not a burden you need to carry, sweetheart,” I said. “Do you understand? What Francine feels and does…
that’s on her.”
Nick nodded.
“Um, Leah?” he said. “I have another English paper due tomorrow…”
“Shakespeare?” I asked, already smiling.
“It’s ‘Romeo and Juliet,’” he said. “It’s so dramatic.”
“Right?” I laughed.
“Wait till you get to ‘Hamlet.’”
As the laughter settled, Nick reached for another waffle.
Then paused. This time, I believed him. And for once, I didn’t feel like I was trying to earn my place.
I just belonged… and there was space for me, too.
If this happened to you, what would you do?
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