The next morning, an odd silence hung over the house. Not an oppressive one, more like a thin film that settled over everything—invisible, yet palpable.
I could hear Mom bustling in the kitchen, the radio humming softly, water splashing somewhere. Dad had already left for work. Tom, meanwhile, sat at the kitchen table, holding a piece of toast in one hand and his soccer ball in the other, as if trying to keep both safe simultaneously.
"You look tired," he said as soon as I entered the room. His grin was triumphant, not reproachful, more like that of a detective who had just uncovered a secret.
"Been doing math half the night again?"
"Not exactly." I poured myself some milk. The glass clinked softly against the carafe.
The cold air from the refrigerator bit at my fingers, and for a moment everything felt normal—ordinary, mundane, harmless.
I knew Tom had no idea how difficult some nights were. And that's precisely why he should never know. He should keep his laughter.
