I nodded. “Yeah, I’ll be down shortly.”
I slunk out of bed and walked toward my ensuite bathroom, where a spotless marble countertop reflected light from the grandiose mirror above it. Grabbing my toothbrush, I caught my reflection in the glass.
I saw the scars—souvenirs from surgeries and falls after fainting. I saw how my body was thinning out. I wasn’t as broad as I had been back when I played hockey. Training at that level had sculpted a physique that people noticed. One that used to make me feel…well, visible.
I wasn’t gross, by any means, but I had lost significant muscle mass and body weight over the last couple of years. I didn’t look sickly—but I just didn’t look like I used to. Sometimes, that thought killed me. Other times, it reminded me I was still alive, still moving.
Today, it was the former.
After washing up and getting dressed, I walked downstairs to see my entire family gathered at the dining room table, enjoying breakfast or coffee. My brother looked like he’d just finished a run and needed fuel to kickstart his day.
The moment he saw me, his face lit up. We’d been really close growing up. Not that we weren’t now—but it felt like we were no longer in the same place. He had taken off, sprinting miles ahead, while I had veered hard left, stuck somewhere off course. I tried not to let the jealousy of everything he’d accomplished sour the mood, but it was hard sometimes. He was always happy. Always boasting. And that kind of light could feel blinding when you’re stuck in the shadows.
“Hey, Ash! How’s it going, my man?” he asked cheerfully.
Smiling, I replied, “Good, good. How’re you? Just get in from a run?”
Wyatt grinned, launching into a full recap of his morning run, followed by talk of the marathon he was training for and the surgical office he was now working at. It felt one-sided, but I didn’t mind listening. Today, I was determined to be in a good mood.
“The try-outs for your old team are open. Did you want to go watch? Cheer them on this weekend?” my mom asked, carefullyinterrupting Wyatt’s monologue like she was tiptoeing around landmines.
“I don’t know, Mom…” I hedged, unsure if that was a good idea.
My dad looked up from his newspaper, adjusting his thick-framed glasses with a scowl.
Mom noticed and added quickly, “We could make it a family affair, go out and cheer on Asher’s team.”
He rolled his eyes so hard I felt my stomach clench before he even spoke.
“And waste a perfectly decent weekend watching a bunch of men chase a puck? We’re going to the club to play a round at the golf simulator. Wyatt and I already made plans.”
And that was final. There was no changing his mind once it was made.
Since my diagnosis, he’d internalized my illness as some kind of personal failure—a defect traced back to his genes. I knew he didn’t mean to let that guilt seep out into every word, every dismissal, but he did. He always did.
“Andrew,” my mother tutted.
He peered up at her, not understanding the sideways glare she gave.
“Are you saying we should cancel at the club in order to watch a bunch of men—who are, in fact,notour son—play hockey?” he asked, his tone condescending.
My mother, petite but fierce, stiffened. Her jaw tightened, her soft features hardening. “I’m sorry, but have you forgotten that we, in fact, havetwosons?”
My father lowered the paper just enough to meet her gaze over the top.
They locked eyes, the kind of silent standoff that promised casualties.
I couldn’t take it.
“It’s all good. I didn’t want to go anyway,” I muttered, poking at the eggs on my plate like a sulking teenager trying to convince everyone he wasn’t disappointed.
“See, Blythe?” my father said casually. “The boy doesn’t want to go. You’re always pushing him back into the life he can’t have. Why remind him of what he’s lost?”
It was meant to sound rational. Reasonable, even. But it hit like a fucking punch to the gut.
I stood up abruptly, reaching for my half-eaten eggs and Ezekiel bread. “I’m not really hungry,” I said flatly.
“Sit down, Asher,” my father said, not looking at me.
