New Home, New Start
“As empaths, we are not here to be sponges or enablers. We are here to be helpers, guides, and supporters.”
— Aletheia Luna
ERIS
"Eris, are you finished packing?!" Mom yells at me from across the house.
I turn from my view out the window back to my bedroom, which is strewn with half-full boxes. I don't want to leave my home, but my mom got married this summer, so we’re moving across state lines to live with her new husband, George, and his son in Montana. As I stand up to start throwing things into my boxes, my mom hurries into the room, out of breath, staring at me like a gaffed fish.
"Oh my God, what in the world have you been doing all week?" She starts gathering loose clutter from the floor and dumping it into the nearest open box.
"I've been trying to avoid all of this," I say, tossing my favorite blue jeans into my duffel. "I won't ever see the only home I’ve ever known again."
She rolls her eyes. "Don't be so dramatic, baby girl. You can FaceTime your friends whenever you want, and they know they can visit when school lets out."
She continues sweeping items off the floor into boxes while I stare at my window seat bookcase—the one my dad and I built together when I was eight. She pauses, coming over to stand beside me. I know she wants to hug me, but she also knows how physical touch affects me. Even standing a foot away, I can already feel her excitement fluttering like butterflies in my stomach.
"I know it's hard, baby girl, but this will be good for both of us, I promise," she says softly. "Remember, just because we're saying goodbye to the home we shared with him doesn't mean we won't remember him." She gives me a reassuring smile. "Now come on, the movers will be here soon."
She goes back to taping up the boxes strewn around the room. While she finishes packing up my furniture, I pack my art supplies, carefully splitting what will go with us in the car from what goes into the moving truck. The doorbell rings just as we finish labeling the last two boxes.
My mom stands up and stretches her back. "Perfect timing. I'll go let them in. Make sure you separate what you want in our car versus the truck so they don't load anything you need for the next few days."
Sighing heavily, I step into my bathroom, leaning over the counter toward the mirror. Am I really angry that I'm leaving this town, I think, or just anxious that I'll have to live with two more people whose emotions I won't be able to escape?
Seeing auburn strands slipping out of my messy bun, I redo it while focusing on meditating, letting everything go the way Dad taught me long ago. Glancing around one last time, I double-check that the bathroom is completely clear before doing the same to my bedroom.
I grab my car bags plus my canvas tote filled with my current paintings, setting them in the hall just as the movers come up the stairs.
"These are for our car, and those are for you," I say, pointing to the stack of boxes inside the bedroom. Nodding, they continue past me to load the hand trucks they brought up.
I don't mind the eight-hour car ride with just Mom; it's infinitely better than the alternative of a cramped airplane ride full of strangers' emotions that I wouldn't have been able to handle. That’s why Mom turned down George's offer to buy us plane tickets. Watching her direct the movers, I notice how much more energy she has. The genuine happiness radiating from her reminds me that I need to find a way to let go of my resentment toward these changes.
"Goodbye, home," I whisper under my breath, watching the movers carry out the last of our furniture. Maybe this move really could be a chance to start over and see life in a new light.
With that thought, I climb into the passenger seat, ready for whatever fate has in store for us in Montana.
That evening, we pull up to a small brick house with blue siding on the second floor and large windows facing the street. A man is standing outside who matches the pictures Mom showed me of George. He has black-and-silver hair, sunspots on his skin, and deep crow's-feet around his eyes, looking like someone who has spent most of his life smiling—just as he is right now. He’s wearing a thick red plaid button-down, blue jeans, and a baseball cap. A boy about my age stands beside him, lean, a few inches taller than me, with light brown shaggy hair.
I pull out my AirPods. "So that's George and Cameron."
"Be nice," Mom whispers, waving at George as he jogs down the driveway.
They embrace and kiss while I step out of the car to meet my new stepbrother. Standing on the pavement, I realize just how short I am compared to him. Glancing over at the happy couple, I notice how seamlessly my mom fits beside George with her tall, athletic frame, while I inherited my dad's looks: red hair, light skin, and blue eyes.
"Girl, how short are you?!" Cameron calls out from three feet away.
"Cameron!" George hisses, shooting him a warning look.
I shrug uncomfortably. "As short as I need to be."
Everyone chuckles awkwardly, and I let the silence stretch a little longer than usual—part of me still feeling stung that I had to uproot my life for this.
"So, do you girls have a lot for us to unload?" George asks first, politely avoiding direct eye contact to give me space.
Mom claps her hands together excitedly. "Yes! The moving truck will take two days, so we brought enough clothes, bathroom necessities, and Eris's art supplies for the weekend."
"Your art supplies are a necessity?" Cameron asks, his tone unnecessarily sharp.
I arch a brow at him. "Yes."
Mom steps in quickly to smooth things over. "Oh! I didn't mean it like that! Eris just paints or draws every single day, so I figured having her supplies would help her settle in easier."
"Cameron, apologize now," George whispers harshly, putting a calming arm around my mom's shoulders.
Cameron shrugs with complete indifference. "Sorry."
We all start unloading the trunk. I make sure to carry my canvas bag myself, keeping it close so no one bumps it. Standing on the walkway, I look up at the house.
George comes up behind me, loaded down with duffel bags. "I know it isn't huge, but I hope you come to enjoy it. I cleaned out the room that gets the most sunlight for you so you can paint, and I painted the walls a soft cream because I read that it helps artists see their colors more clearly. But if you want a different color or an accent wall, just let me know and we can fix it."
I look at him in genuine surprise. "That’s really kind of you. White cream is actually the perfect backdrop. Thank you."
Maybe this won't be so bad after all, I think.
"Short stuff, move out of the way," Cameron grunts from behind me, instantly cutting through my optimistic thought.
I follow George up the stairs with Cameron trailing behind us. George stops at the first door on the left and sets my bags down.
"This is your room, Eris. The next door is the bathroom, the last one on the right is Cameron's, and ours is across the hall." He turns and carries my mom's bags into the master bedroom.
My room has two floor-to-ceiling windows taking up most of the front wall facing the street, a full-sized bed with a tall dresser on the opposite side, and a small white desk positioned next to the door.
"Here. I don’t know what's yours," Cameron says abruptly, dropping my mom's remaining duffel in the hallway before heading back downstairs.
I pick up Mom's bag and walk it over to her door. Inside, I see her and George sharing a quiet kiss. I feel a small pang in my chest—the last person I ever saw her kiss was my dad—but I'm genuinely glad she's found someone who makes her happy. I set the bag just inside their doorway and retreat to my room to unpack.
A sudden, sharp shock hits my chest—a searing wave of heat wrapped around an icy spike of unprovoked malice. I stumble back, clutching my sternum as breath leaves my lungs. I turn toward the doorway to find Cameron standing there, glaring at me with an intensity so harsh it makes me catch my breath.
"Stay out of my way while you’re here," he mutters darkly before spinning on his heel and walking off.
The lingering residue of his emotion makes my chest ache physically. I shut the door, lying back on the bed to center myself and push out the heavy hostility that isn't mine.
For the next hour, I immerse myself in my art, getting lost in the rhythm of lines and shading until a soft knock sounds at my door. I look up to find my mom leaning against the frame with a gentle smile.
"Hey sweetie. I know you're probably exhausted from the drive, but George and I are going to grab dinner. We were thinking of trying out the new pizza place down the street. Do you want to come?"
I hesitate, reluctant to leave the calm boundary of my room, but then I remember my promise to try letting go of my bitterness. Plus, I want to give this new living arrangement a fair chance.
"Sure, give me a few minutes to get ready," I say with a small smile.
Cameron decides to stay behind, so the three of us walk since the pizzeria isn't far. However, when we open the door, the restaurant is packed shoulder-to-shoulder with little league baseball players and their families. The sudden wall of overlapping, chaotic emotions hits my empathic senses like a physical shockwave, knocking me back a step.
Mom catches my arm instantly, helping me step back out into the cool evening air. George thoughtfully offers to head inside alone, picking up a takeout order so we can eat comfortably at home.
