That was Lucas. Always thoughtful, always careful.
Unlike our aunt, who had spent the last eight years reminding me of everything I was not.
“She’ll come anyway,” I said. “She always does.”
I remembered the first year after the accident that killed our parents.
She had appeared at our tiny apartment and looked around as if she were inspecting a crime scene.
Lucas had been coloring at the kitchen table, unaware.
“You really think you can raise a child on this salary?” she’d said. “Be honest with yourself.”
I had been twenty-six. Grieving. Terrified.
And she had known exactly where to cut.
“You know what she’s going to say,” I told Lucas now, drying my hands. “She’s going to comment on the furniture. On my job. On whether you got into a real college.”
“I did get into a real college.”
Lucas leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “Then why do we keep inviting her?”
“Because she’s the only close family we have left besides each other.” The words came out heavier than I meant them to. “And Mom would’ve wanted us to try.”
He did not answer right away.
He only watched me with an expression I could not quite understand, as if he was weighing something he was not ready to say.
“You know you did a good job, right?” he finally said. “Raising me.”
I laughed, but it came out wrong, cracked around the edges.
“No,” he said. “You did a good job. Don’t let her tell you different.”
I turned away so he would not see my eyes fill.
“Grab your backpack,” I said. “You’ll be late too.”
He disappeared down the hall, and I stood in the quiet kitchen, breathing in the strange peace of a life I had somehow managed to build.
