I push back my chair and stand. “Mom, stop—”
She turns to me, eyes wet. “Why would you bring him here, Lyla? Why would you—” Her voice catches, and she presses a hand to her mouth.
“I think I should go,” Damien says quietly, already standing.
“No,” I start, but he’s avoiding my eyes, heading for the door with a kind of careful, controlled movement that feels worse than if he’d slammed it on his way out.
The silence he leaves behind is heavy, pressing on my chest.
I turn back to Mom, who’s staring at the floor now, her anger already softening into confusion again. “Lyla? Did I… did I say something wrong?”
I swallow hard, my throat tight. “No, Mom. It’s okay. Let’s get you back to bed.”
But it’s not okay. Not even close.
Damien
The door closes behind me, but her voice follows me all the way across the street.
You were supposed to take care of him. You were supposed to bring him home.
I walk down the steps, my boots hitting the pavement harder than I mean to. The salt air is sharp in my lungs, but it doesn’t cut through the weight pressing on my chest.
I’ve heard those words before — not in her voice, but in my own head. More nights than I can count.
I told myself I could handle being around Elaine again, that enough time had passed, that her memory slipping would make it easier. But the look in her eyes when she saw me… that wasn’t the disease talking. That was a mother remembering the last time she saw her son alive, and me standing right there beside him.
And the worst part? She’s not wrong.
I step onto the porch of the Lawson house, my hands curled into fists, and for the first time since I got back, I want to pack up and leave. It’d be easier than letting Lyla look at me and wonder the same damn thing her mom just said out loud.
Because I saw her face in that moment — the flicker of hurt, the question she didn’t ask.
And I’m not sure I could give her an answer that wouldn’t ruin everything.
Lyla
The sun’s gone down by the time I finally work up the nerve.
Mom’s asleep — at least for now — and the house is quiet enough that I can hear my own heartbeat. It’s the only sound that follows me as I cross the street, the cold air biting at my cheeks.
The Lawson house looms darker than usual, no light in the front windows. For a second, I wonder if he’s already gone.
But when I step up onto the porch, I see the faint glow spilling from the back, through the thin crack of the open door.
I knock anyway. “Damien? It’s me.”
There’s a long pause before his footsteps come down the hall. When he appears, he’s got his sweatshirt on, hood pushed back, hair still damp from a shower. He doesn’t look surprised to see me — just tired.
“Your mom okay?” he asks, voice low.
“She’s fine. She… doesn’t even remember it now.”
He nods, glancing away. “That’s good.”
I shift on my feet. “I didn’t come over to talk about her memory.”
His eyes find mine again, something guarded in the way he studies me. “Then what did you come over for?”
