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“Thank you for being honest with us, even if it wasn’t easy,” Mom says gently. “We've missed hearing what's really going on with you.”

My fingers tighten around the steering wheel as I consider my next words. “This morning made me realize how much I'd convinced myself that keeping the peace mattered more than speaking up. I got so used to swallowing my thoughts that I stopped noticing I was doing it. Conversations that didn’t feel right or comments I probably should’ve countered, but didn’t. It was easier to avoid confrontation. Somewhere along the way, that started feeling normal.”

Neither of them interrupts, and the silence feels like permission to keep going. “And I started pulling away from you, too. It’s one of the things I regret the most.”

The admission sits heavy in my chest, even though it’s not exactly new. I’ve just never said my thoughts out loud before.

The isolation from my family started small. Nathan would make comments about how often I talked to them. You're calling them again? he asked one evening, leaning against the kitchen counter with a beer in hand. Didn't you just talk to your mom yesterday? I laughed awkwardly, telling him “it'll only take a minute.” It's kind of weird how attached you still are, he replied. I remember ending the call after less than three minutes, promising Mom I'd ring back another day. I never did.

“He never outright told me to stop talking to you, but he made things uncomfortable enough that I started to avoid keeping in touch with you. And even when I was staying with you after the separation, I still didn’t talk about it. Not really. I was living under the same roof as you and I kept things to myself because I was ashamed. Like if I admitted how I’d felt for months out loud, it would make everything real. I wasn’t ready for that.”

“We wondered, you know. You were there, but not always present. We knew that one day you would talk to us,” Mom says, her reassurance making my eyes water, guilt twisting in my gut.

“I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” she replies immediately.

“I kept telling myself I needed more time to figure things out. That I’d explain everything eventually. There were so many times I almost started a conversation, then stopped because I didn’t even know how to explain how I feel without sounding stupid.”

“You’re not stupid. If anything, you’re strong for having the courage to talk now,” Dad says firmly.

For months, I questioned my own instincts, second-guessed my reactions and convinced myself I was overthinking every small thing. I was supposed to be in love and happy with my new husband. So of course I was the problem, not him or our marriage. If I tried harder, everything would fall into place, and we would live a happy life together. But that was only a fairytale I kept telling myself in the darkest moments.

“Even a few months ago, the truth didn’t feel that simple. I got used to choosing the easier option in the past, so that’s what I continued doing. And somewhere along the way, that became my new normal.”

Silence follows, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s steady, grounding instead. I have finally shared my truth with my parents; the two people who love and support me no matter what, even through growing pains.

“I never liked him. What an asshole,” Dad mutters, not even trying to soften the statement.

Another memory surfaces. Nathan sitting stiffly at the table during Sunday dinner, barely touching his food while Mom asked him about work. I remember the tight smile he wore and the annoyance lacing his voice as he answered in short, clipped sentences. Later that night, he acted like the whole evening had been an inconvenience. They’re a bit much, don’t you think? Instead of defending them, I laughed the comment off. Like it was harmless and I hadn’t felt the sting of his careless words.

“He always had an opinion on every single thing, as if he knew better than everyone else,” Dad continues, pulling me back to the present.

“You’re right; he did that a lot.”

“I didn’t push harder because you seemed happy. Well, at least, I thought you were.”

I let out a humorless chuckle. “I thought I was, too. For a while, I truly believed that. But it wasn’t meant to be, and I only managed to push you away in the process.”

“We’re here now. Remember that, even if you’re thousands of miles away and not down the hallway from us,” Mom comments.

“I know,” I say, blinking hard as I focus on the road. “And I really appreciate it. I’m glad we finally talked.”

“We are too,” Mom replies and I can hear the smile in her voice, warm and familiar. “Drive safe, okay? And call us when you get to your next destination.”

“I will,” I promise.

We say our goodbyes and when the call ends, I don’t reach for the music right away. I just keep driving, hands steady on the wheel, letting their comforting words settle deep inside me, in all the places Nathan’s voice used to live.

4

OLLIE

The last few days have been the longest of my life. Looking after another human being who relies entirely on me isn’t easy. The first night, every little sound Tilly made jolted me awake. After she started crying, I was too anxious to fall back asleep. When I finally did, the same happened only an hour later. Rinse and repeat.

While doing my best to look after my niece, I’ve been trying to contact my sister. As expected, Livia isn’t answering my calls and my texts remain unread. At least our little brother Chase has been keeping in touch.

I’ve always been closer to him. Maybe it’s because we’re boys or maybe the six-year gap kept us from stepping on each other’s toes. We never really fought growing up; not like I did with Livia, who’s three years younger and knew exactly how to push every last button. With Chase, I was always his protector. Even when we were sent to different foster homes more than once, that never changed. My job was to make sure they were okay. Or as okay as any of us could be.