The earliest memory I can recall is my mother's funeral.
I remember standing behind my father's coat, one hand gripping the hem while the other twisted a tissue until it shredded between my fingers. The adults wore stiff black, their faces blurred and unfamiliar. I didn't cry. I think I expected her to come back.
The memory surfaces sometimes—quietly, uninvited—like today, when the kitchen is too still and the air smells like burnt toast.
"Everett."
My father's voice breaks the silence, sharp enough to pull me back.
I look up from my plate. He's sitting across from me at the small kitchen table, coffee in hand, toast cooling on a chipped ceramic plate. The morning light catches the silver in his hair and the creases around his eyes, making him look more tired than usual.
"Sorry, I was just... thinking." I stab at a waffle that's already soggy from syrup.
"You've been thinking too much lately." He takes a sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim of the mug. "That brain of yours needs an off-switch."
"I'll work on it," I say, managing a half-smile.
We fall into a familiar rhythm—quiet chewing, the soft clink of cutlery, the sound of the radiator humming in the background. The house always feels a little too big for just the two of us, but my dad likes it this way. Private. Controlled.
"I was going to head into the city later," I say. "Check out that new bookstore off Breckman. Maybe grab lunch with Milo."
He lifts an eyebrow. "Milo. That the one with the eyebrow ring and the unfortunate neck tattoo?"
I groan. "That's Joel."
He shrugs, unbothered. "They blur together. All your friends look like they walked out of a punk concert I wouldn't survive."
"Well, they think you're terrifying, so that evens it out."
He gives a satisfied nod and returns to his coffee.
In the stillness that follows, I study him. My father is the kind of man who fills a room even when he's silent. He was never the loudest, but people listened when he spoke. Respected him. Feared him, sometimes. I used to think it was just because he was tall, or because he had that deep voice that made everything sound final.
But the older I get, the more I understand the weight he carries—and the one he's kept off of me.
He coughs, sudden and rough, into the crook of his arm.
"Dad?"
He waves me off, already reaching for his water glass. "Relax. Just swallowed wrong."
But it lingers in the air. That sound. That crack in his armor.
"You should get that checked."
"I've had worse."
"That doesn't mean you should ignore it."
He sets the glass down harder than necessary and pins me with a look. "I said I'm fine."
I hold his gaze, jaw tight. "You don't have to pretend with me."
He says nothing. Just looks at me for a long time, like he's weighing something.
"You know," he says eventually, "your mother always said you had her eyes."
I blink, thrown by the change in subject.
"She said you'd be the kind of person who'd notice everything. Feel everything. Wouldn't know how to leave things alone."
I swallow. "Is that a compliment?"
His lips twitch. "Depends on the day."
We both fall quiet again.
"You've been thinking about it more, haven't you?" he asks, voice softer now. "About what I do."
"I've always known what you do."
"No, you've guessed." He sets his coffee down gently, as if anything louder might wake something sleeping. "I've made sure of that."
"I never asked because I figured you didn't want me to know."
"And you never asked because part of you didn't want to know either."
He's right. I didn't. I still don't.
"Dad—" I begin, but he cuts me off with a hand.
"I kept you out of it for a reason. Your mother made me promise I would. And for twenty years, I've done everything in my power to keep that line clear." He leans back in his chair. "But lines blur, Everett. They always do."
I stare at him. "Why are you saying this now?"
He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he looks toward the window, where the sun is slowly crawling up over the city skyline.
"Because there's only so long I can keep pretending time isn't catching up to me."
The silence between us stretches taut.
"I don't want that life," I say finally.
"I know."
"Then why does it feel like you're preparing me for it anyway?"
He meets my eyes. "Because sometimes we don't get to choose the moment responsibility finds us. Sometimes it just... shows up."
"Yeah?" I mutter. "And what? Knocks on the door in a tailored suit and offers me a ring?"
He laughs. It's a rare, real sound, and it eases the tension between us for a heartbeat.
"No rings," he says. "Not yet."
I shake my head, running a hand through my hair. "Jesus."
"You've got time, Everett. I'm not going anywhere."
But the way he says it makes my chest ache. Because it sounds too much like a promise he might not be able to keep.
⸻
That afternoon, I leave for the city, but the conversation sticks with me. I drift through the bookstore, ignore my phone buzzing in my pocket, let Milo ramble about the cute cashier he flirted with and his latest songwriting crisis. But my mind is elsewhere.
I think about my father. About how he watches the world like he's waiting for it to crack. About how there's something shifting in him, something unspoken, like he's handing me a map to a place I never wanted to go.
I don't know what's coming. But I can feel it.
It's there, just past the edge of now.
Waiting.