Until that Tuesday.
The day everything shattered.
It was stormy that afternoon—the kind of storm where the sky hangs low and heavy, and the wind claws at the windows.
I came home from a double shift at the diner, soaked through, my socks squishing inside my shoes. My bones ached from the cold.
All I wanted was dry clothes and hot tea.
Instead, I found silence.
Not the usual background sounds—no music from Noah’s room, no microwave beeping from something Liam forgot.
Just silence.
Heavy. Wrong.
They were sitting on the couch.
Side by side.
Still.
Rigid.
Hands folded like they were preparing for something terrible.
“Noah? Liam? What’s wrong?”
My voice felt too loud in the quiet.
I dropped my keys and stepped forward.
“What’s going on? Did something happen at the program? Are you—”
“Mom, we need to talk,” Liam said, cutting me off.
His tone made my stomach twist.
He didn’t look at me. His arms were crossed, jaw tight. Noah sat beside him, fingers knotted together so tightly I wondered if he could feel them.
I sank into the chair across from them.
“Okay, boys,” I said. “I’m listening.”
“We can’t see you anymore, Mom. We have to move out… we’re done here,” Liam said.
