Page 37 of The Storm

“Shift at work.” Nick shuts the fridge and turns around. “You all have fun, though.” If dismissiveness had a voice, this would be it.

“Nicholas,” Mom says, like saying his full name is supposed to have an effect.

He looks at her.

“It’s an important day,” Mom says. “It’s an accomplishment. Something to celebrate with your family.”

Once again she sounds so hopeful. I will never understand why she tries so hard with him. Why she hopes so hard.

“Maybe for people who have somebody to celebrate with.” Nick walks out.

Mom presses her lips into a thin line.

“God, he’s an asshole.” Dia rolls her eyes.

Mom sighs. “Do we have to swear?”

“I find it gives my words flavor,” Dia says. “That little extra oomph.”

Mom shakes her head and goes back to her to-do list.

“What’s his deal, anyway?” Dia says. “I get that he doesn’t want to be here, and the whole thing is sad and all, but did he really think foster care would’ve been a better choice?”

Mom opens her mouth, then closes it. She looks more conflicted than I’ve seen her in ages. Dia and I exchange looks.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mom says. It’s not a reprimand, though. Her voice is sad. Almost gentle.

Dia throws her hands up. “Well, then explain it to me. I’m all ears.”

Mom goes very, very still for a bit, but then she just goes back to her list.

Dia turns her gaze to me. “Did I black out and miss story time?”

“It’s not my story to tell,” Mom says. “Notjustmy story,” she amends a second later.

“So thereisa story to tell.” Dia straightens her back.

“Drop it, darling,” Mom says firmly.

“But—”

“No.” Mom very rarely uses this kind of strict tone, and as a result, it works every time.

“Fine,” Dia grumbles.

She says fine, but I don’t think she means it.

I’m not going to make any promises either.

Dia finishes her breakfast, gives Mom a quick kiss on the cheek, and rushes upstairs to get ready.

I gather the dishes, put them in the dishwasher, and clean up the kitchen. Mom stands, still leaning against the counter, but her phone display turned off a long time ago, and her eyes are on the window, gaze locked on some point I can’t see in the distance.

I go to her, and she turns her head to look at me. She sends me a tight smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. Her shoulders are slumped like there’s something heavy resting on them, and there’s a deep line between her eyebrows.

“I could talk to him,” I say. Pointlessly. Nobody, least of all me, believes any of us can talk Nick into doing anything.

But I don’t really care about that. All I know is that I’m itching to go after him. I’m itching to do something about thedisappointment that’s gathered into a tight ball in the middle of my chest.