Things had been the same. Faye and I still only spoke when necessary. It felt like I was walking through fog, every word muted, every breath measured.
But sometimes, there were these tiny moments of peace, where it didn't feel like we were pretending.
One time, I caught her humming a tune in the kitchen, a tune I recognized all too well. One of my songs – unreleased. She'd probably heard it many times as I rehearsed and readjusted the lyrics. It made me smile, and for a second, she'd smiled back. It almost felt like the last few weeks had been a bad dream. But then I remembered. The fight. The jealousy. The things I'd said and the things I hadn't.
And the guilt would come crawling.
That afternoon, I was halfway through a book I wasn't really reading when the doorbell rang.
I didn't expect anyone.
When I opened the door, my chest went cold.
She stood there — immaculate as always. Straight-backed, pressed blouse, pearls glinting faintly against her throat. Her perfume hit first — sharp, expensive, and distant, like everything about her.
"Mom," I said, voice catching on surprise.
"Harry." She smiled thinly. "May I come in?"
I stepped aside. "Of course."
She walked in like she owned the place, her eyes flicking across the living room — the books on the table, the mug beside the couch, the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen.
Her gaze lingered on the hallway that led to the room.
"Where's your sister?" she asked.
"Out."
"Out?"
"Grocery store."
"Good." Her tone shifted — clipped, efficient. "This won't take long."
She sat down, crossed her legs, and folded her hands on her lap. "You've kept your promise, I hope?"
My stomach tightened. "You know I have."
"Good," she said. "Then you'll understand why I'm here."
I waited, already uneasy.
"Your father's patience is thinning. He wants Faye back home. He's threatening to cut her out of the will if she doesn't return."
I stared at her. "That's ridiculous. She's barely—"
"He's serious, Harry." Her eyes narrowed. "And you will send her home."
"She's not happy there," I said quietly.
"That's not your concern."
I laughed, bitter and low. "Not my concern?"
Her eyes flashed. "Don't test me."
"I'm not testing you," I said. "But she's finally breathing here. She's smiling again."
She exhaled sharply, like my words offended her. "You're overstepping. I let her stay here because I trusted you, because I raised you, loved you like I bore you, and this is how you repay me?"
Her voice cracked at the edge, and something twisted inside me.
"I didn't betray you," I said. "I'm just trying to protect her. To make her happy."
"Make her happy?" She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Is she really the one you're trying to make happy?"
I didn't answer. Couldn't.
Her voice dropped, quieter now. Dangerous.
"I don't want to ever repeat the conversation we had before."
The air left my lungs as the memory came flooding back.
"Whatever you feel, Harry," she whispered, "bury it. Because if your father ever —"
She didn't finish. She didn't have to.
I already knew.
I looked away, jaw tight, shame crawling up my neck. My mother, the one person who was supposed to never see me this way, had seen everything.
She sighed and stood. "I didn't come here to fight. I came because you're losing perspective. Send her home before you ruin her too. Before you ruin everything."
And that's when the door opened.
Faye's voice cut through the tension. "Before he what?"
We both turned.
She stood there, in a black shirt and shorts, hair tied messily, eyes red. She'd clearly been listening. Her expression was a storm.
"Faye," I said, warning in my tone.
But she ignored me, stepping closer. "Why are you using me to threaten him?" Her voice was trembling, furious. "Why are you even talking to him like that?"
"Faye, you don't understand—"
"No, you don't understand." She moved closer, tears already gathering in her eyes. "I expected this from Dad, but not from you. You used to be on our side."
Her voice cracked. "You send us money every month. You tell me to stay safe, to take care of myself. So what changed? Why are you suddenly acting like we're some sort of problem you need to fix?"
"Watch your tone," Mom snapped.
Faye laughed through her tears.
I could see her shaking, could feel her heartbreak from where I stood. I wanted to step in, to calm her down, but I didn't.
She looked between us, eyes burning. "The day Harry left home, you did nothing. You didn't stop him. You didn't say a word. You let Dad throw him out like he didn't matter."
"Faye," I whispered.
She turned to our mother again, voice breaking. "Do you even love him? Did you ever? Because you raised him, but you treat him like some stranger that doesn't matter." She pointed to me. "Look at him, mom. That's Harry. That's my brother. Your son. Stop hurting him, please."
"Enough!" our mother snapped. "You're being childish. Everything I do is for your sake."
Faye's tears spilled over. "How is hurting him for my sake?"
Silence. Heavy, suffocating.
"When did you become this person, mom? You used to tell us our happiness was all that mattered to you." Faye's eyes hardened. "When did you become so evil?"
Mom's eyes snapped to Faye. "Since you heard everything, I won't say anything else. Pack your bags and come home."
"I'm not going anywhere." Faye said defiantly.
"Then you leave me no choice. I will stop sending you money, and Harry," she looked at me, "I'll disown you."
Something inside me — something I didn't even know could — broke.
Before I could react, Faye spoke. "You're a monster. I hate you."
Our mother froze.
"You should have continued to live without ever giving birth. You don't deserve to be a mother."
The room cracked open.
Our mother's hand shot up, fingers curled, ready to strike, but before she could, I caught her wrist mid-air.
Faye had gone too far, but I couldn't watch her getting hit.
Mom's eyes snapped to mine, and for the first time in my life, I saw real hatred in them.
"Harry," she hissed. "Let go."
"I'm sorry," I said, voice low, trembling. "But I can't let you hit her."
We stood like that, her hand in mine, her eyes full of fury, mine full of something close to guilt.
Then, slowly, she pulled her wrist back. Straightened her blouse. Composed herself.
"I hope you remember your promise," she said, every word sharp as glass.
And then she walked out.
The door clicked shut.
Faye's breath hitched, then broke entirely. She sank to her knees, sobbing, her face buried in her hands.
I dropped down beside her and pulled her into my chest. She didn't resist. She just cried, shaking, until my shirt was damp.
"It's okay," I whispered. "It's okay, Faye."
She clung to me like she used to when she was small, fragile, scared, holding on to the only thing that still felt safe.
Time blurred. Eventually, the storm inside her quieted. We ended up on the couch, her head resting against my chest, my arm around her shoulders. The apartment was dim now, the only light coming from the window, pale and soft.
For the first time in days, the silence wasn't sharp. It was soft.
Almost gentle.
She exhaled shakily. "Do you remember when you left home that first time?"
I nodded, throat tight.
"I cried all night," she said, her voice small. "I called you so many times, begged you to come back. You did. After two days."
I smiled faintly. "Yeah. I remember."
"You always come back," she murmured. "You always give in."
"That's what older brothers' do."
Her fingers traced absently against my sleeve, slow, thoughtful.
"I knew Dad was hard on you. I saw it. I just… pretended not to. Because I wanted you to stay. I thought if I ignored it, you'd never leave again."
I didn't trust myself to speak. My chest ached.
"I know I'm impulsive," she said softly. "Immature. I know I act like the world revolves around me."
"Faye—"
"But I'm that way because I know you'll always be there to catch me."
Her voice trembled, but her eyes didn't leave mine. "I'm sorry about Daniel. I should've told you. But it's over now."
Something twisted inside me. "You broke up with him?"
She nodded. "Being with him isn't worth leaving you."
The words hung between us. Heavy. Dangerous.
She leaned closer, resting her head against my shoulder again. "I love you, Harry. You know that, right?"
My heart stuttered.
She didn't mean it the way I wanted her to. I knew that. But it didn't matter. The way she said it, the warmth in her voice, it still burned through me like a confession.
"I know," I whispered.
And I held her tighter, praying she couldn't feel my pulse racing beneath her cheek.