Page 6 of The Silence Between

6

WEIGHT OF SEMICOLONS

LEO

TEN YEARS LATER…

T he darkness yielded reluctantly to 5:30 AM, my phone alarm vibrating quietly beside my pillow. I silenced it before the sound could disturb the apartment, then lay still for exactly one minute, allowing myself the only luxury I could afford: sixty seconds of stillness before the day's momentum claimed me.

Ten years since high school. Ten years of mornings exactly like this one.

The bathroom mirror revealed what those years had done—still lean but harder now, lines cutting deeper around my eyes than any twenty-eight-year-old had a right to wear.

In the kitchen, I moved through familiar patterns, starting coffee and assembling lunches: turkey sandwich with extra mustard for Diego, vegetarian wrap for Mari who'd recently declared meat “environmentally unconscionable,” cream cheese and strawberry jam for Sophie who remained steadfastly eight years old in her preferences. The refrigerator, adequately stocked after yesterday's paycheck, hummed in the quiet apartment.

Not abundance, but not hunger either. A victory of sorts.

“Morning,” Mari's voice came from behind me, her footsteps nearly silent on the worn carpet. At twenty, she'd grown into a young woman I sometimes barely recognized—no longer the frightened child of a decade ago but someone with sharp intelligence in her eyes and the particular confidence that came from surviving what should have broken her.

“Hey,” I replied, pouring her coffee without asking. Two sugars, splash of milk—some routines never changed. “Sophie still asleep?”

“Dead to the world. I had to physically roll her over to stop the snoring.” Mari accepted the mug with a grateful nod. “Diego's up but hasn't emerged from his cocoon of blankets yet.”

“The appointment's at two-fifteen,” I reminded her. “Can you get Sophie from after-school club? I'll take Diego straight from his session with the school counselor.”

“Got it.” She pulled out her phone, adding a note to her calendar. Our shared digital schedule kept the household functioning—three color-coded work schedules for me, school activities, medical appointments, bill due dates, all mapped with the strategic planning of a military campaign.

Mari glanced up from her phone. “The science fair is next Thursday. Sophie's freaking out about her volcano.”

“It'll be fine. We'll work on it this weekend.” I checked the calendar on the refrigerator, mentally calculating how to fit volcano construction between Saturday's double shift and Sunday morning's plumbing call for Mrs. Hernandez.

“Diego's meeting with his counselor is about getting him into the right grade level, right?” Mari asked, her voice lowered even though he wasn't in the room.

I ran a hand through my hair and nodded. “Yeah.”

My gaze caught briefly on an unopened letter from Riverton Community College propped against the fruit bowl. My application for night classes sat in limbo, a tentative step toward resuming long-deferred education plans. Two courses per semester was all I could manage—all our budget and my schedule could accommodate. A ten-year degree plan, assuming nothing went wrong.

A dangerous assumption in our world.

“Is that the college letter?” Mari asked, following my gaze. “You should open it.”

Before I could respond, Sophie bounded into the kitchen, curls wild from sleep, Cookie Monster pajamas rumpled despite being almost too small for her thirteen-year-old frame. “I'm starving! Like, actually dying of hunger. My stomach thinks my throat's been cut.”

“Dramatic as always,” Mari muttered, but her hand reached automatically to smooth her sister's hair.

“Breakfast in two minutes, drama queen,” I said, turning to the stove. “Tell Diego it's almost ready. He needs to eat before we head to that counseling appointment.”

As I flipped pancakes while simultaneously quizzing Mari on her community college chemistry formulas, the letter remained unopened, future possibilities crowded out by immediate needs. The life I'd built existed entirely in the present tense—no space for past regrets or future dreams, only the constant now of responsibilities met and crises averted.

By 7:45 AM, I was deep into my shift at Water's Edge Diner, moving between tables with mechanical movements born of eight years' repetition. The morning rush brought the usual crowd—factory workers grabbing coffee before the day shift, nurses coming off night rotation at Riverton Memorial, elderly couples splitting breakfast plates while stretching social security checks.

“Coffee refill, Leo?” Mr. Jenkins asked, holding up his cup without looking away from his newspaper.

“Got you,” I replied, already reaching for the pot.

As I poured, my mind divided itself with practiced skill—one part present and pleasant with customers, another calculating tips against this month's unexpectedly high electric bill, a third planning how to squeeze Diego's medication refill between jobs tomorrow.

“Earth to Leo,” said a familiar voice. I blinked to find Tasha Williams sliding into a booth, her five-year-old daughter Zoe already reaching for the crayons I kept in my apron pocket specifically for her.

“Hey, stranger,” I said, the words warming with genuine pleasure. Tasha had been one of the few constants through the years—from high school classmate to friend to emergency childcare provider when hospital shifts left her needing help with Zoe.

“The usual?” I asked, already writing down their order: coffee black with two Splenda for her, chocolate chip pancakes shaped like Mickey Mouse for Zoe.

“You know it.” Tasha yawned, her dark hair pulled into the messy bun that signaled an overnight shift at Riverton Memorial. “Just got off. Four car accidents and a kidney stone. Fun times in the ER.”

“Sounds like a party.” I handed Zoe her crayons and a blank placemat. “How's the new supervisor working out?”

“Better than expected. Hey, did you hear about the new English teacher they hired at the high school? Supposed to be some hotshot who published a book or something.”

“Haven't heard anything,” I said, attention already drifting to table six where a customer was signaling for his check.

“You should meet my friend Asher,” Tasha continued, a familiar glint in her eye. “He's a pediatric resident, just moved to town. Smart, funny, single...”

“And I'm busy, exhausted, and definitely not looking,” I finished for her, an old exchange between us.

“All work and no play makes Leo a dull boy.”

“All bills and three kids make dating a fantasy I can't afford,” I countered, but kept my tone light enough to soften the words.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. During shifts, only the kids' schools and our neighbor had this number for emergencies. I pulled it out to check, surprised to see a text from a number I rarely encountered: Mom.

Mom

Can we meet? Have news.

Five simple words that triggered a complex cascade of emotions—wariness, obligation, faded hope, all overlaid with the protective instinct that still governed my limited contact with her. Gloria lived in a halfway house across town now, after years of cycling through rehab, relapse, and homelessness. Our relationship existed in a careful neutral zone—not close, but not entirely severed for the younger kids' sake.

“Bad news?” Tasha asked, reading my expression.

“Just Mom,” I replied, slipping the phone away. “I'll bring your order right out,” I said, already moving to the next table, pushing unwelcome complications back behind the wall of immediate tasks.

Present tense only. That was the rule for survival.

* * *

The plastic chair in Riverton High's guidance office dug into my back as I sat beside Diego, the familiar environment carrying complicated associations. Ten years ago, I'd been the student; now I was the guardian; tonight I'd return as the janitor who cleaned these same offices. Three distinct selves occupying the same space at different times, never quite aligning.

Diego's foot tapped a nervous rhythm against the floor as Ms. Wilson, the guidance counselor, reviewed his academic performance with practiced concern in her voice.

“Diego's verbal comprehension scores are well above grade level,” she explained, “but his processing speed and written expression show significant discrepancies. Combined with his classroom behavior—difficulty staying focused, disrupting others when overwhelmed—it suggests potential learning differences that should be formally evaluated.”

“This has been going on for years,” I added, glancing at Diego's tense profile. “All the moves when they were younger, changing schools four times in two years... he fell behind, and we've been trying to catch up ever since.”

Ms. Wilson nodded sympathetically. “I see from his records he's sixteen but placed in sophomore classes.”

“He should be a junior by age,” I confirmed. “But the learning issues combined with our...unstable housing situation in his early teens meant he repeated eighth grade.”

I turned back to the matter at hand. “What kind of evaluation are we talking about? And what support can the district provide?”

Ms. Wilson hesitated slightly. “The comprehensive neuropsychological testing we'd recommend is typically done privately. It's quite thorough but can be... costly.”

“How costly?” I asked, though I already knew the answer would be beyond our means.

“Around three thousand dollars, generally not covered by basic insurance.”

Diego sank lower in his chair, his lanky teenage frame seeming to fold in on itself, the burden of being a financial problem visibly weighing on his shoulders. I placed a hand briefly on his knee—reassurance without words.

“And without private testing?” I pressed, familiar with navigating bureaucratic systems to find hidden resources.

Ms. Wilson shifted slightly in her chair, glancing down at Diego's file. “There are options, though they're more... limited. The district can conduct an educational assessment, which isn't as comprehensive as neuropsychological testing, but could qualify Diego for an IEP—an Individualized Education Program.”

“How long would that take?” I asked, knowing from experience that 'district resources' often moved at glacial speed.

“The initial evaluation typically takes sixty school days from when we receive written consent.” She slid a form across her desk toward me. “Once the assessment is completed, we'd schedule an eligibility meeting to review the results and determine appropriate accommodations.”

Diego's foot had stopped tapping, his body now completely still—the kind of stillness that meant he was trying to make himself invisible.

“Two months,” I translated, calculating how many assignments he could fail, how many detentions he could receive, how much self-esteem he could lose in that timeframe. “And in the meantime?”

“We can implement some informal accommodations,” she offered. “Extended time on tests, preferential seating, breaking assignments into smaller chunks. I'll speak with his teachers.”

I nodded, signing the consent form with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd signed countless forms for countless officials. “What about the Wright Foundation scholarship? I remember they fund educational assessments for families that qualify financially.”

Ms. Wilson looked surprised. “You know about that program? Yes, they do offer grants, though the application process is quite competitive.”

“We'll apply,” I said, no room for debate in my tone. “What else?”

By the time we finished, Ms. Wilson had given us contact information for three support programs, a list of free tutoring resources at the community center, and a referral to a sliding-scale psychologist who specialized in learning differences. Not enough, but more than we'd had walking in.

Twenty minutes later, we left with a folder of information, potential resources, and my firm promise to investigate every avenue of support. The hallways were filled with students changing classes.

“Are you mad?” Diego asked quietly once we reached the front steps.

“About what?”

“About me being... broken. About needing special help and costing more money.”

I stopped walking, turning to face him fully. Despite being sixteen, there was still so much vulnerability in his eyes. “Look at me, D.” I waited until his eyes reluctantly met mine. “You're not broken. Your brain works differently than some other brains. That's it.”

“But you have enough to deal with already.”

“Hey,” I said, keeping my voice low but firm. “Everyone's story has different punctuation. Sometimes we need semicolons instead of periods.” My fingers found the faded tattoo on my wrist. “A semicolon means the sentence could have ended, but it didn't. The author chose to continue. That's what we do—we continue, no matter what.”

“Even when it's hard?” he asked, a moment of rare vulnerability from a teenager who usually masked his insecurities with sullen silence.

“Especially then.” I squeezed his shoulder, respectful of his growing independence while still offering support. “Now go catch the bus. I've got to get to the Henderson job. Pasta for dinner tonight, and don't give Mari a hard time about her college applications.”

As I watched him jog toward the bus line, backpack bouncing against his shoulders, his tall frame still carrying the awkwardness of adolescence, the weight of being both brother and parent settled familiar and heavy across my chest. Not a burden I resented, but one that sometimes left me breathless with its constancy.

* * *

The coffee shop sat exactly halfway between our apartment and Mom's halfway house—neutral territory for our infrequent, often difficult interactions. I'd chosen a corner table where I could watch both the door and the street outside, a habit formed through years of anticipating trouble from multiple directions.

Mom arrived five minutes late, which actually constituted early by her standards. At forty-eight, she looked sixty—her once-vibrant beauty hollowed out by addiction's relentless excavation. Still, ninety days of sobriety had returned some color to her face, some stability to her hands as she unwrapped her scarf.

“You look good,” she said after ordering her coffee, the standard opening to our careful conversations.

“Thanks,” I replied, not returning the nicety because we both knew lies didn't serve us anymore. “Your text said you had news?”

She traced the rim of her mug, a nervous gesture I recognized from childhood. “Your father's back in town.”

The words landed like stones. “Since when?”

“Las week. He's living at the men's recovery center on Pine Street.” She hesitated. “He's six months sober, Leo.”

“After four years of complete silence?” I couldn't keep the edge from my voice. Dad had drifted in and out of our lives like a ghost since I was eighteen, appearing for brief periods of attempted sobriety before vanishing again. But this last disappearance had been the longest - four years without a call, a text, not even a birthday card for the kids. The last we'd heard, he'd followed some construction job to Arizona, then nothing. No explanation, no goodbye. Sophie had been just eight when he left, barely old enough to remember his face without photographs.

“He was in bad shape,” Mom said, her eyes dropping to her coffee. “Worse than before. Ended up homeless in Phoenix for a while, then some church program got him into rehab in California. It took a long time for him to be ready to come back, to face what he'd done.”

I kept my expression neutral, though my hand tightened around my cup.

“That's good for him,” I said carefully. “I hope it sticks this time.”

“He wants to see you. All of you.” Her eyes, so much like Mari's, held a desperate hope I was familiar with. “We both do. A family dinner, maybe? Just to talk?”

“Mom...” I began, the weight of potential disappointment already settling across my shoulders.

“Just dinner,” she pressed. “He's really trying this time. We both are. Don't we deserve a chance to make things right?”

“It's not about what you deserve,” I said. “It's about what they need. Stability. Consistency. People who show up.”

Her face hardened slightly. “We're still their parents, Leo.”

“Biologically, yes.”

“That's not fair. We were sick.”

“I know that,” I said, working to keep my voice even. “Addiction is a disease. I've sat through enough Al-Anon meetings to understand the difference between the person and the illness. But understanding doesn't erase consequences.”

“So you're just keeping our children from us? Playing God with our family?” Her voice rose slightly, drawing glances from nearby tables.

“I raised them,” I said quietly, the simple truth sharper than any accusation. “I was sixteen when you both chose drugs over us. I'm not making decisions based on what you want, or what he wants, or even what I want. Every choice is about what they need.”

Mom's eyes filled with tears—genuine pain I couldn't dismiss despite everything. “We made terrible mistakes, Leo. Unforgivable ones. But they're still our children. You're still our son.”

“Let me think about it,” I conceded finally.

It was less than she wanted but more than I'd planned to give. She nodded, recognizing the negotiated truce for what it was.

As we parted outside the coffee shop, she reached out and touched my forearm lightly.

“You did good with them, Leo,” she said, an acknowledgment so long awaited it almost hurt to finally hear. “Better than we ever could have.”

I nodded, unable to form words around the complicated tangle of emotions her statement evoked. As I watched her walk away, shoulders hunched against the cold, I wondered what it cost her to admit that truth and what it would cost me to finally accept it.

I arrived home emotionally drained, only to find a text from my night shift supervisor. They needed me to come in early to cover for another janitor. The compounding pressure of the day created a rare crack in my composure.

Alone in the kitchen while the kids did homework in the living room, I gripped the edge of the counter, breath coming shallow and quick. The weight I carried daily suddenly felt unbearable, crushing in its constancy.

“Leo?” Mari's voice grounded me. She stood in the doorway, concern etching her features. “You okay? You look pale.”

I straightened, rebuilding my walls with practiced speed. “Fine. Just tired. I need to go in early tonight.”

She studied me with eyes too perceptive for sixteen. “I can handle things here. Make sure Diego finishes his social studies and Sophie practices piano. We'll be fine.”

“I know you will,” I said, and meant it. The stability I'd built for them had become a foundation they could stand on, even in my absence. A foundation my parents had never provided for me.

Maybe that was victory enough.