Chapter Seven – The Parts of Me

Ethan

Most people only see the surface.

The guy who walks into a supermarket every day to buy a lollipop. The one who smirks too much, who always has a sarcastic comment ready. The guy who never seems too bothered by anything.

But that's the thing about people—you show them what you want them to see. And I learned a long time ago that it's easier to keep things simple. Keep people at arm's length.

Because the truth?

The truth is messy.

Mornings have never been my favorite.

Not because I hate waking up early—I'm used to it—but because mornings used to mean something different. Something good.

When I was a kid, mornings were slow and warm. My mom would always be up first, humming to herself as she made coffee, the smell drifting through the house. The radio would be playing some old song she loved, and she'd sway a little as she cooked breakfast.

I remember sitting at the kitchen table, still half-asleep, watching her move around like she had all the time in the world.

And then there were the fights.

They started small at first. Tense conversations that I wasn't supposed to hear. Voices rising just enough to make me and my mom flinch. My dad's anger was like a slow-building storm, gathering in the distance until it was too close to ignore.

Then one day, it was just over.

The divorce wasn't a clean cut. It was messy, dragged out, filled with arguments over who got what—who deserved what. And when it was final, my dad didn't waste any time.

Within a year, he had a new wife, a new house, and a new family.

My mom got what was left.

I was fifteen when I realized I hated him.

It wasn't just because he left. It wasn't even because of how quickly he moved on. It was the way he treated my mom like she was nothing. Like she had never mattered.

And then there was her.

My stepmother.

I don't know if she ever liked me. I don't think she ever really tried. From the moment she stepped into our lives, it was like she saw me as something inconvenient. Something she tolerated because she had to.

I tolerated her too.

For a while, at least.

But then my sisters were born.

Mia and Sophie.

They were the only good thing that came out of my dad's second marriage. They were loud and stubborn and impossible to say no to. And from the moment they were born, they were mine.

It didn't matter that they were only my half-sisters. It didn't matter that they lived in a house I hated, with parents I didn't trust. They were still mine.

I did everything I could to be there for them.

I picked them up from school when my dad was too busy. Took them out for ice cream when my stepmother was in one of her moods. Let them call me in the middle of the night when they were scared of the dark.

They don't know it yet, but I'd burn the world down for them.

And maybe that's why I still deal with my father at all.

Because I can't stand him. I can't stand the way he talks about my mom, like she's something weak. I can't stand the way my stepmother looks at me, like she's just waiting for the day I disappear.

But I can't leave Mia and Sophie alone in that house.

So I stay. I show up. I play the role of the older brother who has everything under control.

And then, when it gets to be too much, I leave.

Wake up. Go for a run—because if I don't, my head gets too loud. Shower. Work—emails, meetings, the same cycle over and over again.

And then, at some point in the afternoon, I go to the store.

At first, it was just something to do. A mindless habit. A way to break up the monotony.

But then there was Lily.

And suddenly, it wasn't so mindless anymore.

Most nights, I end up at my mom's house.

It's smaller than the one I grew up in, a little more worn down, but it still feels like home.

She always acts surprised when I show up, like it's not a regular thing. But I can tell she's happy to see me, even when she sighs and says, "Ethan, you should be out having fun, not hanging out with your mother."

But I don't mind.

Because with her, I don't have to pretend.

I don't have to be the guy with the smirk, or the one who always has a joke ready. I can just be.

And maybe that's why I keep showing up.

Because at the end of the day, when the world feels too heavy, I just want to be somewhere that still feels safe.