He waited by the front window, arms crossed, watching for his brother’s car, when it started to snow. When Logan’s car pulled into the driveway, Benson stepped out onto the porch. His brother walked up with that familiar, irritating grin—one that always seemed to carry more judgment than warmth.
“Here,” Logan said, handing over the phone like it was a favor he regretted.
“Thanks,” Benson replied, keeping his voice even.
But Logan lingered. “Did Della ever mention her moving back home?” he asked.
Benson’s jaw tightened. “She’s happy here. She doesn’t want to leave.”
Logan scoffed. “Happy? You let her drink. She’s out at all hours of the night. That’s not parenting, Ben—it’s neglect.”
The words hit harder than Benson expected. Not because they were true, but because they were so far from it. Della was twenty-two. She was responsible, kind, and grounded. She baked pies and made coffee and held Benson together when he couldn’t do it himself. She wasn’t a child. She was choosing her life—and she chose to stay with Benson.
“You don’t know anything about her,” Benson snapped. “You barely show up. You don’t ask. You just assume.”
Logan stepped forward, voice rising. “She’s my daughter.”
“No,” Benson said, voice sharp now. “She’s not your responsibility anymore. You gave that up when you threw her out of your home because she dated someone who wasn’t white.”
The silence between them crackled. Benson’s heart pounded, not from anger alone—but from the years of resentment that had never found words until now.
“Get off my porch,” he said finally, voice low and firm.
Logan stared at him for a long minute, then turned and walked back to his car without another word.
Benson stood there long after the engine faded down the road. The lake was still again, but inside, everything felt unsettled.
He walked back into the house, sat down at the kitchen island, and checked his phone. His fingers moved quickly, instinctively, to Kyle’s name.
No messages. No missed calls. Nothing.
The emptiness hit harder than Logan’s accusations. Benson had written the letter, pouring out everything he couldn’t say aloud. And still—he felt the pain of their separation. He stared at the screen, heart sinking. Maybe Kyle had moved on. Maybe the silence was his answer.
He set the phone down gently, as if it might break under the weight of his disappointment. The lake shimmered outside the window, indifferent to his ache. And Benson sat there alone, wondering if love always ended like this—with words unsent and silence that felt like goodbye. Della told him that behavior was called ghosting. She’d had her share of them.
Benson left the kitchen and sat on the back steps of the house, elbows resting on his knees, the lake stretching out before him, indifference of the snowflakes falling. The moon cast long shadows across the sand, and the air carried the freezing winter. He held his phone loosely in one hand, the screen dark, untouched. Kyle hadn’t messaged. Not a word. Not even a missed call.
He didn’t hear Della approach until she sat beside him, her presence soft but grounding. She didn’t speak immediately.Just handed him a mug of chamomile tea and tucked her legs beneath her, the way she always did when she was settling in for something real.
“You’ve been out here a while,” she said.
Benson nodded, eyes still on the lake. “Just needed air.”
Della looked at him, really looked. “You were hoping he’d text back.”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
“I saw the way you looked at your phone when my father handed it to you,” she continued. “Like it might hold something that could fix everything.”
Benson let out a deep breath. “It didn’t.”
Della leaned her shoulder against his. “You could call him.”
He shook his head. “I don’t want to push.”
“You’re not,” she whispered. “You’re reaching out. There’s a difference.”
Benson stared at the water, the way it caught the fading light and scattered it like broken glass. “What if he doesn’t want to hear from me?”
