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Aiden
“Did you hurt yourself?” my mom asked.
Of course, she caught the wince. Anya was sound asleep on their couch, and when I leaned over to make my first attempt to pick her up, I must’ve made a face.
My sister, Eloise, perched on the kitchen counter with a spoonful of peanut butter in her mouth, nodded slowly in agreement. “He did look very old and slow just now.”
I speared her with a look.
She smiled.
Deciding to leave Anya where she was, for the time being, I stood quickly, like I was young. “Just fell hard at work when I wasn’t expecting it.”
My mom’s face wrinkled in concern. Eloise grinned.
“You okay?” Mom asked.
“Yeah. I was … training with my manager and …,” I paused, trying to decide if it was wise to even tell them a little bit of this conversation. No part of my interaction with Isabel felt safe for consumption yet. I wasn’t even ready to process what it meant, let alone spoon-feed it to my mother and my younger sister, who’d devour it with the same unfettered glee as she was attacking that peanut butter straight from the jar. “I just fell,” I finished lamely.
Eloise narrowed her eyes, but I knocked her legs sideways when I passed into the kitchen of our parents' house. She kicked out at me, catching my hip when I cleared the island, and she was lucky I didn’t dump her off the counter.
I’d already been kicked at enough by one feisty twentysomething tonight, and I didn’t need my little sister added to the ranks.
And dammit, like I needed the reminder that she wasn’t that much older than Eloise.
“When did Anya fall asleep?” I asked.
My mom grabbed a spoon of her own and snuck the container from Eloise. “’Bout thirty minutes ago. Colored a picture with El after we had some dinner. Clark was here for a while and played Uno with her. Her forehead was a little warm, and she said she was tired, so I told her to cuddle up on the couch. She fell asleep as soon as I turned the TV on.”
I rubbed my forehead wearily. “I wondered if she was getting sick. She was a little off last night too.”
Mom’s face, as usual, took on that look of concern. “She still getting finicky at bedtime?”
My laugh was dry. “Yeah. Last night we hit a new variant, though. She asked if she could sleep in bed with me, which she hasn’t done since Beth died.”
Eloise stared down at her lap, and my mom clucked her tongue. The lack of immediate reaction was nothing new to me.
This was my life on a loop.
Sometimes they piped up with suggestions, but for the most part, no one in my family had ever dealt with a loss at this level until my wife died. Their silence was a glaring admission. This sucks, and we don’t know what to tell you.
It was the largest piece to moving through life-altering grief. Making peace with that unfulfilling truth.
It sucked. And no matter what people said, their words didn’t make it better. Better came with getting through each day.
“Did you let her?” Eloise asked. For as much as she gave me shit—that was part and parcel with being the youngest of five and the only girl—my sister always trod carefully in this area.
I shook my head. “I can’t move backward now. I’m not really sure what triggered it, but I’ll keep an eye on it.”
“She climbed up on that armoire in our bedroom,” Mom said. “Had to bribe her with cookies to get her down.”
“How’d she get up there?”
She shrugged. “I think she used the small end table from your father’s side of the bed.”
I sank onto a stool at the island and rubbed my forehead. “That’s happening more again too.”
“Your house?” Eloise asked.
