Page 562 of End Game

Laundry detergent.

Vanilla hand lotion.

Home.

“Hi, Mom.”

She pulls back and looks at my face. “You look tired.”

“I'm fine.”

“That means you're tired.”

I almost smile.

Some things survive everything.

Dad is in the living room, glasses low on his nose, tablet resting against one knee. “Hey, son.”

“Hey.”

He gets up and clasps my shoulder.

Normal.

Still normal.

Matthew has been Dad longer than he hasn't, at least in every way that counts.

My biological father left when I was nine.

For years after that, there wasn't anyone filling the space he left. Mostly Mom. Grandma. Aunt Rachel and Uncle Stephen. Cousins everywhere. Adults cycling through shifts and classes and childcare while I learned how to make myself small enough not to need much from any of them.

Matthew showed up when I was fifteen.

Married Mom two years later.

Never asked me to call him Dad.

Never acted like he was entitled to it.

It just happened eventually.

So did son.

Mom asks if I want coffee.

I say no.

Tea.

No.

Food.

No.

By the third refusal, she knows this must be serious.