14. Fragile Equilibrium Too long #3
We talk a little longer—about Liam trying new words, about his professor who assigns reading like students don’t need sleep, about my coworkers planning a team lunch. Nothing dramatic. Just life. Eventually, I glance at the time and wince.
“I should get some sleep,” I say. “He’ll be up early.”
“Yeah,” Reid says. “I’ve got an early class too.”
There’s a small beat where neither of us hangs up.
“I love you,” he says first.
“I love you too,” I say.
We end the call, and the apartment goes quiet again.
The silence doesn’t feel as heavy as it did a few weeks ago, but it’s still there, pressing around the edges.
I clean up the kitchen, wipe down the counters, stack Liam’s tiny bowls in the sink.
When I’m done, I grab my keys and Liam’s diaper bag.
Mom’s place is only a few minutes away. I hadn’t planned on going tonight, but something in my chest wants the anchoring only she can give. By the time I get there, the sun is low, casting a warm glow over the little house I grew up in. I knock once out of habit and then let myself in.
“Ma, it’s me,” I call.
“In the kitchen,” she answers.
I find her at the stove, stirring something in a pot. The smell hits me first—seasoned chicken, rice, something with garlic. My stomach growls on instinct.
“You cooked,” I say.
“I always cook,” she says. She glances over her shoulder at me. “You look tired.”
“Thanks,” I say dryly.
She snorts. “I didn’t say you look bad. Just tired. Which is true.”
“That’s better,” I say.
“Where’s my grandbaby?” she asks.
“Sleeping,” I say. “I left him with Destiny. She wanted to ‘practice’ putting him down by herself.”
Mom smirks. “She thinks parenting is practice. That’s cute.”
I lean against the counter and cross my arms. “You busy?”
“I’m stirring rice, not curing disease,” she says. “What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing,” I say automatically.
She gives me a look. “Try again.”
I sigh and drop my arms. “Day was a lot.”
“Work?” she asks.
“Work,” I say. “Daycare. Presentation. People saying things they don’t realize sting.”
“What did they say?” she asks.
“That I’m doing it ‘all on my own,’” I say. “Like it’s a compliment, but also like they’re confused how I’m functioning.”
She hums. “People love to marvel at what they don’t have to live through.”
“Yeah,” I say.
She turns off the stove and wipes her hands on a towel before facing me fully. “You’re doing a lot, Amelia. I’m not going to lie to you. But you’re not doing it alone. You have me. You have your sisters. You have Hazel. And you have that boy, even if he’s still figuring it out from a distance.”
“I know,” I say quietly.
“Do you?” she asks. “Because sometimes you talk like you’re expected to carry the whole world by yourself.”
“If I drop it, who picks it up?” I ask.
“We do,” she says simply. “That’s the point of family.”
Her answer is so straightforward it almost annoys me. I exhale instead.
“Reid’s been better,” I say. “He’s calling more. Listening more. He remembered my presentation. He asked about it.”
“That’s good,” she says. “He’s growing up too.”
“I need him to,” I say. “I can’t be in a relationship where I feel like his mother and his girlfriend and Liam’s mother all at once.”
“I know,” she says.
She steps closer and rests a hand on my arm.
“You’re allowed to want support without apologizing for it,” she says. “You’re allowed to expect effort from someone who says they love you. You’re also allowed to be proud of everything you’re doing, even when people try to reduce it to survival.”
I swallow and nod. “I’m trying to believe that.”
“You’re allowed to be tired too,” she adds. “That doesn’t make you weak.”
My eyes sting for a second, and I blink it away.
“Great,” I say. “Now I’m going to cry in front of the rice.”
She laughs softly. “Go sit. I’ll fix you a plate.”
“I didn’t come for food,” I say.
“You never come for food,” she says. “You always eat anyway.”
She’s right. I do.
We talk for a little while longer, about Destiny’s latest irritation at work, about Iris and whatever chaos she’s stirring this week, about Hazel planning another girls’ night “one day when you’re not drowning.
” It feels normal. Comforting. It reminds me I have roots even when everything else feels unsteady.
Later, when I’m back home and the dishes are put away and the apartment is quiet, I check my phone again. There’s a new message from Reid.
Reid: Proud of you today. Get some sleep.
It’s simple. No emojis. No extra fluff. Just a straight line from him to me. I set the phone face-down on the nightstand and crawl into bed.
Things are better. Not fixed. Not easy. But better.
Liam is adjusting to daycare. I’m finding my feet at Nexus Dynamics.
Reid is trying to meet me in the middle instead of pulling me toward his side or resenting the distance between us.
It all feels fragile. One wrong move, and we could still shatter.
But tonight, for the first time in a while, I let myself hold onto the small, cautious hope that maybe we can learn how not to knock it over. I close my eyes and breathe in, slow and steady. Tomorrow will bring its own mess. Tonight, the balance holds.