Page 19 of The Silence Between
The door felt heavier than usual as I pushed it open, bracing myself for the quiet that usually greeted me after school hours. Instead, I walked into a storm.
Mari stood in the kitchen, tears streaming down her face as she clutched a letter in her trembling hand. Diego sat hunched on the couch, headphones on, radiating the particular tension of someone deliberately disconnecting from emotional chaos. Sophie hovered between them, her face pinched with anxiety as she tried to play peacekeeper in a situation beyond her capabilities.
“What's happening?” I asked, dropping my keys on the side table.
Mari thrust the paper toward me. “Northwestern housing deposit is due by Friday. Non-refundable. Two thousand dollars we don't have.”
The scholarship letter I'd been so proud of two weeks ago now felt like a cruel joke. Tuition support meant nothing if we couldn't cover housing. The deadline meant we couldn't save up over time. The non-refundable clause meant we couldn't put down a placeholder while figuring out the rest.
“We'll figure it out,” I said automatically, the phrase I'd been repeating for a decade when faced with impossible financial obstacles.
“How?” Mari's voice cracked. “We don't have it. We're not going to have it by Friday. And without housing, the scholarship is worthless.”
Diego yanked his headphones off. “Just tell her to go to community college like you were supposed to do,” he snapped. “Nobody in this family gets to actually leave.”
“Diego,” I warned, but he was already building momentum.
“What's the point anyway? They'll just find another reason why we're not good enough. That's why they called you to school today, right? To explain how I'm screwing everything up again?”
“You're not screwing anything up,” I said, trying to reach him through the teenage anger that masked his fear.
“Then why were you at school? Why was Townsend there? Why is everything always falling apart no matter how hard we try?” His voice rose with each question, the careful composure he'd maintained at school finally cracking.
“Because the system is designed to work against families like ours,” I answered honestly, too tired to sugarcoat it anymore. “But that doesn't mean we stop fighting.”
“Why not?” Diego demanded. “What's the fucking point? Dad shows up drunk, making everything worse. You work three jobs and we're still broke. Mari gets a scholarship but can't use it. I try at school but it's never enough.”
Sophie had started crying silently, her small shoulders shaking as she absorbed the emotional overflow from all of us. I moved toward her automatically, gathering her against my side while trying to address the multiple crises unfolding simultaneously.
“We'll find the money for the deposit,” I told Mari, though I had no idea how. “Diego, what happened today wasn't your fault. The meeting went fine. Everything's okay.”
The lies felt bitter on my tongue. Nothing was okay. Nothing had been okay for years. We were just very good at pretending.
Mari's phone rang, shattering the momentary pause in our argument. Her expression shifted from frustration to dread as she checked the screen.
“It's Dad,” she said quietly.
Something cold settled in my chest. “Don't answer it.”
But she already had, her sense of obligation overriding self-protection as it so often did for all of us. I could hear Miguel's voice through the speaker, loud and slurred.
“Mari? That you? Why don't you kids ever call me back? I'm your father!”
Mari held the phone away from her ear, wincing. “Dad, this isn't a good time.”
“Never a good time for your old man, is it? That's what Leo's taught you, isn't it? To turn against me?” His voice grew louder, more belligerent. “I've got papers now. Legal papers. Says I get visitation. Says Leo can't keep you from me anymore.”
Sophie pressed closer to my side, her small body trembling. Diego had gone completely still, the anger in his expression replaced by something worse—fear.
“Dad, you're drunk,” Mari said with remarkable steadiness. “Call back when you're sober and we can talk.”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” The roar through the speaker made us all flinch. “Townsend says Leo's been poisoning you against me. Says I can get you back if I prove he's an unfit guardian. Says?—“
I reached for the phone, but Mari had already ended the call, her face pale.
“He's working with Townsend,” she said quietly. “They're coordinating.”
The confirmation of what I'd suspected hit harder than it should have. Of course they were working together. Of course this was a coordinated attack from multiple directions. Of course we couldn't catch a break, even for a moment.
Something inside me finally broke. Ten years of holding it together, of being the strong one, of carrying everyone and everything without complaint—it all came crashing down at once. My legs gave out, and I sank to the floor, back against the wall, face in my hands as tears I hadn't allowed myself in years finally came.
Mari was beside me instantly, her arms around my shoulders. “Leo, it's okay. We'll figure it out.”
My own words coming back to me should have been comforting. Instead, they broke me further, great heaving sobs that I couldn't control. Diego appeared on my other side, awkward but present, his hand on my arm. Sophie crawled directly into my lap, her arms around my neck.
“I can't do it anymore,” I admitted, the words torn from some place I'd kept locked for a decade. “I'm trying so hard, but it's too much. It's all too fucking much.”
I'd never allowed them to see me break, believing my strength was the foundation they relied on. But as they circled around me, offering the comfort I'd always been the one to provide, something shifted in our family system.
“Then we help more,” Mari said firmly. “I can take over the scheduling. Diego can handle more household stuff. We're not kids anymore, Leo.”
“But the custody review?—“
“Will show a functional family supporting each other,” she finished. “Not a superhuman guardian burning himself out trying to do everything alone.”
I looked at their faces and felt something break and reform inside me. They weren't the terrified children I'd first taken custody of. They'd grown not just in age but in capability, in resilience, in their capacity to be partners rather than dependents in our shared life.
“When did you all get so wise?” I asked, wiping my face with the back of my hand.
“We had a good teacher,” Diego mumbled, the anger of minutes ago replaced by gruff affection.
Somehow, we made it through the rest of the evening. Mari took charge of dinner while I helped Sophie with homework. Diego disappeared to his room but emerged later to wash dishes without being asked. We functioned, not perfectly but adequately, as I allowed myself to step back from orchestrating every detail.
The apartment fell silent around midnight. I sat alone on the balcony, the emotional aftermath of my breakdown leaving me hollow but somehow lighter. The night air carried the scent of coming rain, lights from West Riverton reflecting off low clouds.
I'd spent ten years believing that absolute independence was the only way to protect my family. That any vulnerability would be exploited, any help would come with strings attached, any partnership would eventually crumble under the weight of our complicated reality.
But today had shown me something different. Ethan, Marcus, and the lawyer appearing when I most needed support. My siblings stepping up when I finally allowed them to see my limitations. The possibility that walls built for protection might actually be increasing our vulnerability by cutting us off from resources we desperately needed.
I reached for my phone and typed a text to Ethan.
Leo
I need help. Not just with practical things. With everything.
The words stared back at me from the screen, terrifying in their nakedness. No qualifications, no limitations, no careful boundaries. Just raw truth I'd never allowed myself to express.
My thumb hovered over the send button for a long moment. Pressing it would change everything—admitting need, inviting connection, accepting vulnerability. The possibility of rejection or disappointment loomed large in my mind. What if this was a mistake? What if I was trading one kind of risk for another, even more dangerous kind?
But continuing as I had been wasn't sustainable. Today had proven that beyond any doubt.
I hit send before I could change my mind.