Like he doesn’t even mean it as an insult.
And somehow, that makes it worse.
I shift, rubbing a hand over my jaw, my fingers scraping over stubble I haven’t bothered to shave off in a few days. “How’s Mom?”
“She’s fine,” he says, voice tight, clipped, giving me the bare minimum, like he can’t be bothered to share anything more. No elaboration, no detail.
I glance at the clock on my nightstand. “Is she home?”
“I think so.”
I think so.
I swallow down the bitter laugh that wants to escape. They live in the same house. Married for twenty-five years. And he doesn’t even know if she’s home.
I lean back against my bed, staring up at the ceiling. I really shouldn’t be surprised. Their relationship’s been like this for as long as I can remember. When I was a kid, it was nonstop fighting—yelling in the kitchen, doors slamming. Then one day, it just… stopped. No more yelling. No more arguing.
They didn’t get better. They just got quieter.
I’m still not sure which one is worse.
There’s some rustling on the other end of the line, and then a muffled voice. A few seconds later, Mom’s on the line. “Hi, Sweetie.”
I shift again, adjusting the phone against my ear. “Hey, Mom.”
“How are you?”
I hesitate for a second too long, my fingers drumming lightly on the side of my bed. “I’m good.”
“You eating enough?”
I can’t help but smile at how much she worries. “Yeah, Mom. I’m good.”
“Not just ramen and protein shakes?”
I huff out a laugh, rolling my eyes. “I eat actual food, I promise.”
I can hear her hum in the background, unconvinced. “You’re too much like your father sometimes.”
The smile slips. My jaw tightens, and I look out my window.
“How’s hockey?” she asks, shifting the conversation.
“It’s good,” I reply.
“I saw that highlight of you last week. That breakaway goal was incredible.”
A slow exhale escapes me, the tension in my chest loosening just a little. It shouldn’t matter, but it does. No one really comes to my games—hell, I can count on one hand the number of people who’ve shown up to support me in the stands. I wonder sometimes if anyone even notices. My dad watches, sure, but he’s never one to say anything positive. It’s always what went wrong. I swear, I could score a hat trick, and he’d still find a way to tell me I should’ve had another assist.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“We miss you, darling,” she says, letting out a soft breath. “You have to come and visit sometime.”
We.The word lingers in my head, and I swallow, my throat tightening. “Yeah… Will do.”
“I should let you go,” she says. “Call me soon, okay? I love you.”
“Love you too.”
