“Caleb, wait—” Harper’s voice follows me, but I’m already moving.
I take the stairs two at a time, my vision blurring at the edges. I make it to my room and close the door behind me with a control I don’t feel. Gently. Carefully. Not slamming it, even though every cell in my body is screaming to destroy something.
Lock the door. Unlock it. Lock. Unlock. Lock. Unlock. Lock. Unlock. Lock. Unlock. Lock. Unlock. Lock. Unlock. Lock?—
Lost count, none of it matters?—
I sink to the floor with my back against the door and fall the fuck apart.
The sobs come quietly at first. Then harder. Until I’m gasping for air, hands pressed over my mouth to muffle the sounds because even now, even in this, I can’t let them hear me break.
I can’t let Mom hear me crying.
She has enough to worry about without knowing I’m up here shattering into a thousand pieces.
So I cry silently into my hands, shoulders shaking, chest heaving, rocking back and forth and thinking about all the ways I’ve failed.
Failed to keep her safe.
Failed to notice she was sick again.
Failed to be good enough, perfect enough, strong enough to keep this from happening.
Failed.
Failed.
Failed.
Outside my door, I can hear muffled voices downstairs. Harper’s sharp tone. Silas’s deeper rumble. I can’t make out the words, but I don’t need to.
They’re talking about Mom.
About cancer.
About how our perfect Christmas morning just became the day everything fell apart.
Because this time, I’m old enough to understand exactly how bad this could be.
And there’s not a single thing I can do to stop it.
THIRTY-THREE
HARPER
Caleb doesn’t talkto anybody for days. Just monosyllabic words dragged out with pliers.
I let it go the first night. Give him space. Figure maybe he needs time to fall apart in private, like he probably never lets himself do in front of anyone.
But the next day is the same.
And the day after that.
I even tried his trick of leaving food outside his door. A sandwich. Cookies. Water.
The plates remain untouched.
I check the next morning. The sandwich is exactly where I left it. The cookies haven’t moved. The water bottle is in the same position—I can tell because I left it at a slight angle and it’s still at that exact angle.