Carrying Spring

January

Talia

Two weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since Christmas.

Since I last left the house.

Since Nate was released on bail.

Since my dad watched a video, he can’t unsee.

Time hasn’t moved properly since then. It doesn’t flow. It just accumulates, piling up in corners, in voices raised behind closed doors, in empty bottles that appear beside the sink each morning like evidence no one bothers to hide.

I measure everything in twos now.

Two weeks of my parents barely speaking unless they’re arguing.

Two weeks of my dad drinking like he’s trying to dissolve something inside himself.

Two weeks of my mom pretending that if she keeps the house clean enough, quiet enough, we might pass for normal.

Two weeks of knowing that whatever broke this family finally cracked because of me.

I don’t say that out loud.

No one does.

But it lives in the space between us all the same.

The house feels smaller than it ever did growing up. Walls too thin. Doors that don’t keep anything out. Sound carries here—anger, blame, guilt—bouncing from room to room until there’s nowhere left to hide from it.

I hear them before I see them.

My parents’ voices drift up the stairs in uneven bursts. Not shouting—not yet—but sharp enough to cut. My mom’s tone brittle, controlled. My dad’s rougher, slower, already dulled by drink even though it’s barely mid-morning.

“I told you,” my dad says. “I should have known.”

“You didn’t know,” my mom replies, too quickly. “You can’t keep saying that.”

“I should have,” he snaps. “I should have seen it.”

The words lodge somewhere behind my ribs, heavy and familiar. I stay still on my bed, knees pulled up, listening to the argument circle the same wounds they’ve been picking at since New Year’s Day.

They never say his name.

They don’t have to.

It’s right there in my dads eyes every time he looks at me. The same look that hasn’t left since the moment he saw that video.

Failure.

It follows me through the house, clings to my skin, lives in the way he watches me like I might break again if he blinks too long. It’s there when he flinches at sudden noises. When he checks the locks twice before bed. When he pours a drink like it’s medicine instead of penance.

Sophia has started hovering at the top of the stairs, listening before she comes down. Already learning how to read tone, how to decide whether it’s safe to enter a room. Sometimes she brings her homework into my bedroom just to sit on the floor beside my bed, pretending she needs help she doesn’t really want.

Todd doesn’t understand it the same way. He still believes adults are supposed to know what they’re doing. When my parents argue, he goes quiet instead—curls up on the sofa with his headphones on, volume too loud, eyes fixed on the screen like if he concentrates hard enough the shouting won’t reach him.

I hate that they hear it.

Hate that they’re learning this early how fragile adults really are because of me.

My phone buzzes beside me on the bed.

The sound is sharp in the quiet, cutting through the argument downstairs like a thread pulled too tight. I grab it before I can think better of it, before guilt has time to catch up.

Adrian.

My chest tightens—relief braided with something more dangerous. Something I don’t have a name for anymore.

Are you awake?

I type back quickly.

Yeah.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.

How are you feeling today?

I stare at the screen, thumb hovering. There are so many answers stacked behind my teeth that none of them feel safe.

Tired.

Trapped.

Like my parents are breaking because of me.

Like my dad is drinking because he thinks he failed.

Instead, I choose the smallest lie.

Okay.

He doesn’t call me out on it. He never does. That’s part of why this feels like the only place I can breathe.

You don’t sound convinced.

Despite everything, a faint, unwilling smile tugs at my mouth.

You can hear tone through text now?

I can hear yours.

Downstairs, the argument spikes—my dad’s voice louder now, words blurring into accusation, regret, something like desperation. I roll onto my side and pull the duvet closer, pressing my phone to my chest like proximity might quiet the house.

They’re arguing again.

The reply comes almost immediately.

I’m sorry.

Two words. No fixing. No reframing. Just acknowledgement.

It’s enough to make my throat tighten.

I don’t cry. Crying feels indulgent somehow, like something I no longer have the right to. Instead, I stare at the screen and let the glow of it anchor me, let the quiet presence on the other end remind me that there is still one place in the world where I’m not being watched for cracks.

I type before I can talk myself out of it.

I wish it would stop.

There’s a pause. Not a long one. Just long enough to tell me he’s choosing his words carefully.

I know.

Not it will.

Not it has to.

Just I know.

Downstairs, the argument loses momentum the way they always do—voices dropping, exhaustion settling in, the sharp edges dulled by repetition. A chair scrapes. A cupboard closes too hard. Then silence, thick and uneasy, replacing the noise like a held breath.

I stay where I am.

I don’t go check on Sophia. Don’t knock on Todd’s door. Don’t try to smooth anything over. I’ve learned, in these two weeks, that my presence doesn’t soothe anything. It only reminds them why they’re angry, why they’re afraid, why everything feels so fragile.

Two weeks since Christmas.

Two weeks since I last stepped outside.

Two weeks since everything started falling apart.

I don’t know how long this is going to last.

I don’t know what happens next.

All I know is that tomorrow will come whether I’m ready or not.

And for now, that has to be enough.