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He pauses before saying, “Hope you know I’m proud of you, Anna.” The sincerity in his tone hits like a pang of guilt; I know what he means. Proud of you for not tweaking out on some stranger’s couch. Most brothers don’t have to say that. Mine does.

“Thanks. Hey, I’ve gotta go. Can we talk later?”

“Sure.” He clears his throat. “Love you.”

“Love you too. Say hi to Micky for me.”

“Will do. Bye.”

I hang up the phone and turn on my playlist before returning to chopping vegetables. I need a distraction from my thoughts that have been growing louder over the last few months. The ones that are restless and want more. The problem is, I’m afraid of what more could mean. I shake the ugly memories away. I’m good now—I’m sober. I haven’t been that person in years.

My life may not be the most thrilling thing in the world, but routines feel like a security blanket when you come from a life where chaos nearly destroyed you.

Exercise daily. Eat healthy. Get eight hours of sleep. Drink water. Schedule your day. Minimize idle time.

Singing along to the music, I get lost in cooking. When I’ve finished making my lunches for the upcoming week and have washed all the dishes, I start on making my dinner. Monday means soup and salad. I like soup and salad.

Chop. Stir. Plate. Consume.

After eating, I do another round of stretching before heading out on my evening walk.

Keep going.

When I come back I begin my nighttime routine. I do my skincare, brush my teeth, and apply lotion—using a special lotion on my healing tattoo. The drawer containing my pajamas has a neat and orderly pile of sleep shorts. I glance around the room; everything is tidy. I didn’t use to be like this.

And what’s wrong with that?

I slam the drawer shut and tug on the shorts, then snatch up my paperback from the nightstand so I can read for a couple hours and hopefully get some reprieve from the impending boredom that seems to be settling in my bones.

After a while my eyes feel heavy and I drift to sleep in my comfortable bed.

On the same pillow. Under the same blankets.

With the same emptiness.

A few weeks later, I stroll in on my day off with a bag of burgers from a place down the street, my usual contribution. “All right, who’s funding my child support tonight?”

“Possums aren’t children,” Thor mutters, shaking his head.

“Have you seen the possum?” Logan asks, sitting down across from him. “The similarities are uncanny. Those genes went copy-paste.”

“She has my smile,” I say proudly. “When can I expect you to finish her house?”

“Next week,” he says, shuffling the cards. “Shutters are still gluing.”

Logan chokes. “Oh, he’s doing architectural details for the possum now?”

“Curb appeal,” I explain, unwrapping a burger and taking a bite.

“Casper’s concerned about the resale value,” Thor adds, doling out two cards to each of us.

I push the food I’m chewing to the side of my mouth before answering. “Well, not anymore I’m not, I’ve got the shutters.” Duh.

Logan peeks at his cards. “Storm rated or decorative?”

“Storm-rated,” I reply at the same time Thor says “Decorative.”

I shoot him a look.