Chapter 2 #2
Before I head out, I look through my socials.
I’m mid-scroll when a video auto-plays on my feed.
It’s my sister, Aurora, standing on a rooftop in LA, the skyline behind her.
First week as a junior buyer at Bloomingdale’s.
Still feels surreal, her caption reads, followed by three champagne emojis and the hashtag #PostGradDreams.
A hollow ache settles in my chest. People always leave… for school, for jobs, for something bigger. And I stay. Even Aurora, my little sister, she’s twenty-three and already living the life I used to dream about.
I used to imagine myself in a city like that, going after stories that set my heart on fire. I even had the application saved for a job in New York.
But then Mom was diagnosed with atrial fibrillation a few years ago. The bills piled up. And here I am, watching someone else live the life I wanted, while I write about turkeys hijacking luxury vehicles.
Mom used to teach art at the elementary school.
She loved it, always came home with glitter in her hair and paint on her sleeves.
But since the flare-up a few months ago, the dizzy spells and the new meds, she’s been on medical leave.
She says it’s just until things stabilize, but I’ve seen the way she touches her chest when she thinks no one’s looking.
She hasn’t been back to the classroom yet, and I’m not sure when she will.
Fifteen minutes later, I pull into our large circular driveway, climb the three steps to the front door, and let myself in with my key. The noise hits me instantly. Home.
I’m the oldest of seven. A chaotic, wonderful mix of boys and girls.
At twenty-seven, I carry the invisible badge of eldest child responsibilities.
Ignoring the noise of the kids, I drop my bag in my room and head to the living room, where Mom’s curled up on the sofa, her face a little paler than usual.
I tell myself not to overthink it. She’s just tired. Still, a twist curls in my stomach.
“Hey.” I lean down to kiss her cheek. “Have you eaten?”
She blinks up at me, smiling. “Not yet. Just needed to rest a bit first.”
“I’ll get started. What would you like for dinner?”
“I’ll help.” She slowly rises. “I hadn’t planned anything in particular.”
I hold out my hand. “No, you rest. I’ve got it.”
“I’m sick of resting. That’s all I do.” She waves me off.
I glance at her as she walks into the kitchen, noticing how carefully she moves, the way she pauses slightly when catching her breath.
“Mom,” I say softly behind her.
Grabbing vegetables from the fridge, she lays them on the counter.
“How are you feeling today?” I grab a knife, cutting board, and pot.
I wait, expecting her usual answer while chopping broccoli. But stay hopeful for something different.
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just a little tired.”
I put the knife down gently. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
With a sigh, she leans against the counter. “I know. But worrying about it won’t change anything. I’m managing.”
I watch her from the corner of my eye as we work.
Her breathing is shallow again, the kind that barely reaches past her ribs and makes me worry.
She used to glide through the kitchen, humming, wiping down counters, stirring sauce, or checking on the oven.
Now she has to pause just to catch her breath.
A tightness builds in my chest as my mind races. What if I don’t get that promotion? What if something happens to her, and I can’t afford the hospital bills? What if I’m not enough to hold all this together? Will I be forced to tell my siblings about our financial situation?
I swallow hard, the words catching in my throat.
I’m scared, Mom. I keep thinking… what if something happens to you?
I feel like I’m trying to hold everything together, and I don’t know if I can.
But I don’t say it. I can’t. Because if I do, I’m sure tears and panic will come.
Pretending is the only thing holding me together.
Opening the fridge, I try to decide between chicken or fish, like my world isn’t shifting from underneath me.
When I return to the counter, she reaches for my hand, her fingers cool.
“Amelia, you don’t have to carry it all.
I know you feel responsible, but I’m still your mom.
I’m still here. And I’m proud of you… for everything.
I don’t want you to sacrifice your life for mine.
You’re young. You should be out with friends… or a nice man.”
Of course, she knows.
I never said a word, but she saw it anyway… she always does. But that’s the thing about her: she can see it even when I think I’m hiding it well.
“Luna said I’m being considered for a promotion. I’m trying not to get my hopes up.”
Her face lights up, pride shining through the exhaustion as she squeezes my hand. “I’m so proud of you. You deserve this.”
I nod, feeling both lighter and heavier at the same time. “Thanks, Mom.”
I return to cooking, the clink of utensils and the low hiss of the stove bringing me back to the moment. Behind me, the familiar noise of my family fills the kitchen.
The table’s nearly full now. Hazel, sixteen, lounges at the far end, one leg draped over the other, eyes glued to her phone. “Fifty-eight seconds flat,” she says without looking up. “Coach nearly cried. Honestly, I should be scouted already.”
Next to her, Atlas, fourteen, hunches over a napkin, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth as he adds scales to a dragon’s tail he’s drawing. “Hey, move your elbow,” he mumbles when Sofia leans across him, holding out a piece of paper.
“Guys, can you read with me? Just this scene,” Sofia, who’s twelve, pleads. “It’s for tomorrow’s audition.”
“Only if the dragon gets a voice too,” Atlas mutters.
A blur dashes past the table—six-year-old Felix, wearing nothing but superhero undies. “Spiderman doesn’t do broccoli!” he yells, leaping onto the sofa.
Jasper, fifteen and full of opinions, leans back in his chair. “Did you know, in Finland, they don’t even give homework? And the kids there are super smart.” He shrugs. “I’m just saying, maybe we’re the ones doing it wrong.”
One chair remains empty. No one ever sits there, even though we’ve long stopped setting a place for him.
Dad’s seat.
The back left leg still wobbles. I keep meaning to fix it, but I never do.
The noise used to feel overwhelming when I was younger, each new sibling adding another layer to the chaos. But it wasn’t the volume, it was the weight of helping, of stepping in, of becoming the one who holds it all together when no one else does.
Now, though… the noise feels like home.
After dinner, we clear the table, and Mom pulls out Monopoly. It’s our weekly tradition… no phones, just us, rolling dice, laughing, and bonding.
It starts off innocently enough. Atlas grabs the race car before anyone else can. “I’m the car. It gets better mileage,” he says seriously, like that has any effect on dice rolls.
“You never even play it right,” Sofia mutters as she snatches the banker tray and tucks it close to her chest. “You can’t buy utilities and skip paying. That’s not how strategy works.”
Atlas shrugs, already rolling. “Worked last time.”
I land on Mayfair. And of course, there’s a hotel.
“Fourteen hundred,” Sofia says smugly, extending her hand.
“Seriously?” I groan as I toss her the bills.
Felix slaps a Chance card down and yells, “I win!”
“Felix,” I say gently. “You’re in jail.”
He frowns, then grins. “Spiderman can do whatever he wants ‘cause he’s awesome.”
Looking insulted, Jasper chimes in. “Is anyone listening? I was talking about other countries’ school systems. No homework. Kids are happier.” He picks this conversation back up from dinner.
“Jasper,” I mutter. “We’re playing Monopoly.”
“Are you sure you’re not cursed?” Hazel jokes from her spot next to me. She likes watching me suffer in board games.
“I’m not cursed,” I grumble, handing over my last blue fifty-dollar bill. “It’s a test of character.”
“And how’s that working out for you?”
“Not great.”
By the end of the game, alliances have crumbled, fake bills are dramatically thrown across the room, and Felix is trying to convince us that “free parking” means that he owns the car now, not Atlas. We laugh until our stomachs hurt.
This is home. This is why I stay. This promotion could help us.