Lia: The Weight of Morning Light

The sharp rattle downstairs pierced through the fog of my sleep like a blade cutting through silk. My body jerked awake, heart hammering against my ribs as I fumbled blindly for my phone on the nightstand. The familiar weight of it felt cold and lifeless in my palm—completely dead, just like my hope for a peaceful night.

Shit.

I pressed the power button repeatedly, knowing it was futile. The screen remained black, offering no comfort of time or connection to the outside world. The darkness outside my window seemed to mock me, heavy and oppressive, wrapping around my room like a shroud. I couldn't have been asleep for more than an hour or two—my body still ached with the exhaustion that had become my constant companion.

The noise came again, louder this time, followed by a dull thud that seemed to echo through the walls of our small house. Then I heard it—mom's laughter. That shrill, broken sound that made my stomach twist into knots. 

"What on Earth?" I murmured, my voice barely audible in the suffocating silence of my room. I threw off my covers and padded across the cold hardwood floor, each step measured and cautious. The house seemed to hold its breath around me, as if it too was afraid of what we might find.

As I reached the top of the stairs, I could see a shadow moving behind the frosted glass panel of our front door. The figure swayed back and forth, unstable and uncertain. The rattle came again—metal against metal, keys that weren't there scraping against a lock that wouldn't turn. My heart sank as the pieces fell into place. She was trying to open the door and failing miserably, and if I had to guess, it was definitely because she was intoxicated out of her mind.

Again.

I descended the stairs slowly. The familiar dread settled in my chest like a stone, heavy and suffocating. This wasn't the first time. It wouldn't be the last. The pattern had become as routine as breathing, as predictable as sunrise, and just as inevitable.

When I opened the door, the sight that greeted me was both heartbreaking and infuriating. There she was—my mother. Her eyes were bloodshot, the whites streaked with angry red veins that spoke of tears and alcohol and sleepless nights. Her beautiful hair, once her pride and joy, hung in tangled strands around her face like a curtain she couldn't quite hide behind.

She was still wearing the same clothes from this morning—a faded blue blouse and black slacks that had seen better days. But now they reeked of cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey instead of her usual comforting scent of vanilla and cooking oil. The transformation was jarring, like seeing a beloved painting that had been left out in the rain, its colors running and bleeding into something unrecognizable.

She was rummaging through her purse with shaking hands, the bag hanging precariously off one shoulder. When her glassy eyes finally found mine, she gave me a goofy smile that didn't reach her eyes. It was the smile of someone trying to convince themselves that everything was fine, that the world wasn't falling apart around them.

"I couldn't find the keys," she said, her words slightly slurred but still coherent enough to understand.

That's because you didn't take them, I thought, but I kept the words locked behind my teeth. There was no point in stating the obvious, no point in adding salt to wounds that were already bleeding.

Instead, I reached out and gently took her purse from one hand while supporting her arm with the other. Her body felt so frail beneath my touch, like a bird with hollow bones that might shatter at the slightest pressure. The woman who used to carry me on her shoulders, who used to seem so strong and invincible, now leaned against me like a child.

"It's okay," I whispered, injecting as much comfort into my voice as I could muster. Nothing about this was okay. Nothing about watching your mother destroy herself piece by piece, night after night, was ever okay.

I guided her slowly through the doorway, her body swaying from side to side like a ship in rough waters. Each step was a negotiation, a careful balance between supporting her weight and maintaining my own footing. The familiar scent of alcohol seemed to follow us like a ghost, permeating every breath I took.

When we reached the living room, I eased her down onto the old couch. Her eyes fluttered shut almost instantly, as if she had been holding them open through sheer force of will and could finally surrender to the exhaustion that had been chasing her all day. I wondered if she had even eaten dinner.

I was about to turn away when her voice, barely above a whisper, stopped me in my tracks.

"I'm sorry."

The words hung in the air like a prayer, soft and broken and full of pain. I didn't need to look back to know that she was already talking in her sleep. She had been doing this for years—these midnight confessions that she would never remember in the morning. Sometimes it was apologies. Sometimes it was promises she couldn't keep. Sometimes it was just my name, repeated over and over like a mantra.

I could already see tomorrow morning playing out in my mind like a movie I had watched too many times.

I walked back to the front door, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. As I reached for the handle, something made me pause. A prickle at the back of my neck, a sensation that I wasn't alone. I stood there for a moment, peering out into the darkness, trying to identify what had triggered my instincts.

Did she come with someone? The thought sent a chill down my spine. 

I stepped out onto the porch, the cold night air biting at my skin through my thin pajamas. The street stretched out before me, empty and eerily quiet. A few stray dogs wandered between the pools of yellow streetlight, their shadows dancing on the asphalt like spirits. The silence was thick and oppressive, broken only by the distant hum of an air conditioner and the rustle of leaves in the night breeze.

I scanned the shadows, looking for any sign of movement, any indication that someone was watching. But there was nothing—just the usual collection of parked cars and dark windows. Maybe I had imagined it. Maybe the stress and exhaustion were making me paranoid.

After a few more minutes, I finally stepped back inside and locked the door behind me. I found one of our old throw blankets and draped it carefully over mom's sleeping form, tucking it around her shoulders. She looked so peaceful in sleep, her face smooth and untroubled, and for a moment I could almost pretend she was just taking a nap after a long day at work.

I turned off all the lights and made my way back upstairs.

Let's prepare for tomorrow, I thought, closing my eyes and hoping for a few more hours of escape before the sun rose and the performance began again.

*********************************************************************************************************

The following morning was crisp and clouds adorned the sky like brushstrokes on a canvas, their gray underbellies promising rain. A chilly breeze grazed my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms and making me shiver in my thin tank top and denim shorts. I had deliberately chosen light clothing—there was still plenty of time to get ready for school, and I wanted to feel the cold. It helped me stay alert, helped me push through the fog of exhaustion that had become my constant companion.

The walk to Nonna's house was mercifully short, just a few minutes across the quiet street and past three houses to the left. From my front porch, I could see the gravel driveway that led to her small, well-maintained home. The morning ritual of bringing her breakfast had become sacred to me—a small act of normalcy in a world that often felt like it was spinning out of control.

Nonna had never asked me to bring her meals. I had simply started doing it one day, maybe a year ago, when I noticed she wasn't eating as much as she should. It was our unspoken agreement—I would show up with food, and she would accept it with grace and gratitude.

I knocked on her familiar blue door and waited, listening for the slow shuffle of her footsteps across the hardwood floor. Usually, it took her a few minutes to make her way to the door, her arthritis making each step a small battle. But today, the door swung open almost immediately, and the face that greeted me was definitely not Nonna's.

Nate stood in the doorway, and my brain struggled to process what I was seeing. His dark hair was damp with sweat, water droplets clinging to the strands like morning dew. His face looked like someone had splashed him with cold water, and perspiration was still dripping from his hairline. He wasn't wearing a shirt—just a pair of black sweatpants that hung low on his hips, revealing the sharp V-cut of his hip bones and the defined muscles of his abdomen.

A million questions crashed through my mind like a tidal wave. What the hell was he doing here? Why was he half-naked? Where was Nonna? Had something happened to her? The possibilities raced through my thoughts, each one more alarming than the last.

But somehow, the only words that managed to escape my lips were: "Eww, you reek."

He paused, lifted one arm to smell his armpit, and actually flinched at his own scent. But then he turned back to me with that infuriating smile of his, the one that suggested he found my discomfort amusing.

"You just have a bad sense of smell," he said, his voice still rough from sleep or exertion—I couldn't tell which.

I rolled my eyes, a gesture that had become automatic whenever Nate was involved. "Where is Nonna? And what on Earth are you doing here this early in the morning?"

"Mrs. Rosetti went for a walk," he said, using Nonna's formal name in a way that sounded strange coming from his lips. "And I live here."

The words hit me like a physical blow. "What do you mean you live here? This is Nonna's home."

"Sure it is," he agreed, but before he could elaborate, his attention was caught by something else entirely. His eyes locked onto the container in my hands, and suddenly his expression shifted to something almost predatory. "Is that food I see?"

Before I could react, he had snatched the container from my grasp and was already turning to walk back into the house.

WHAT?

"Hey, give that back to me!" I called after him, my voice rising to an almost embarrassing pitch. "That's for Nonna. I didn't make it for you. And you still haven't given me my answer."

But he was already walking away, completely ignoring my protests. I had no choice but to follow him, my bare feet slapping against the cool hardwood floor as I tried to keep up with his longer strides. He moved through Nonna's house like he belonged there, like he had every right to be wandering around half-naked, stealing food from containers that weren't meant for him.

He headed straight for the kitchen, which was connected to the main living area by a wide archway. The space looked exactly as I had left it two days ago—clean but obviously underused. Since Nonna lived alone and rarely cooked for herself anymore, the kitchen had taken on an almost abandoned quality. The counters were empty except for a thin layer of dust that caught the morning light, and the sink was bone dry with a white mineral cast around the edges. The handles of the cabinets were beginning to show spots of rust, and the whole room felt like a stage set for a play that had ended long ago.

I generally took care of Nonna's meals, bringing her breakfast every morning and dinner whenever I could manage it. On the days when I was too busy or too exhausted to cook, she would walk to the diner—it wasn't far, and she was still mobile enough to manage the short journey. 

Nate placed the open container on the dusty counter and immediately began inhaling the omelet rice I had prepared. I always included a spoon with every meal, and he wasted no time in diving in. I watched, torn between annoyance and fascination, as he ate with the kind of desperate enthusiasm that suggested he hadn't had a proper meal in days.

"Ayo!" I protested, but my words seemed to bounce off him without making any impact. He was completely absorbed in the food, as if nothing else in the world mattered. Accepting defeat, I simply stood there in the kitchen doorway, watching him eat in relative silence.

If there was one thing I was starting to appreciate about Nate, it was the way he approached every meal like it was a gift. There was no casual picking or polite nibbling—he ate with genuine hunger and obvious gratitude. It was almost endearing, in an infuriating sort of way.

As he ate, the morning sunlight streaming through the kitchen window caught his skin, highlighting the contours of his lean frame. In the comfortable silence, I found myself noticing details that I would normally have overlooked or deliberately ignored. His body was a study in contradictions—thin but muscular, almost fragile-looking but obviously strong. His abs were so perfectly defined they looked like they had been carved from marble by an artist with infinite patience and skill.

But it was the scars that really caught my attention. On his left side, stretching from his back around his ribs to his front, was a long black mark that looked like it had been burned into his skin. The scar was old and faded, but still clearly visible, a permanent reminder of some trauma I couldn't begin to imagine.

What kind of situation had he gotten himself into to end up with such a vicious scar? The question burned in my mind, but I didn't dare ask. As my eyes traveled upward, I noticed several more scars scattered across his torso—smaller ones, less dramatic, but still there. Each one told a story I would never know, hinted at a past that was clearly more complicated and dangerous than I had imagined.

The realization hit me like a cold wave: I knew absolutely nothing about Nate. Where had he come from? Where was he living? What had happened to his parents? 

So many questions crowded at the tip of my tongue, begging to be asked. But something held me back—maybe it was just the recognition that everyone deserved to keep their secrets until they were ready to share them.

He finished the food and took a deep, satisfied breath, like someone who had just experienced something transcendent. Then he looked up at me, and for a moment, his guard seemed to drop completely.

"Yeah, so," he began, his voice softer now, more serious. "I'm staying with Mrs. Rosetti in the room upstairs. I was looking for a place to live, and she wanted someone to help with chores around the house. We made a deal—I take care of her, and she doesn't charge me rent."

The explanation was simple and logical, but something about it triggered every protective instinct I possessed. Nonna was sweet and trusting, the kind of person who would invite a stray cat into her home and feed it until it was fat and happy. She was also elderly and potentially vulnerable, living alone in a house that was too big for her.

Suspicion crept up my spine like ice water, making me straighten and cross my arms defensively. When I spoke, there was a sharp edge to my voice that I didn't bother to hide.

"Are you trying to scam Nonna?"

The transformation in Nate's expression was immediate and dramatic. His head snapped toward me so quickly I was surprised he didn't give himself whiplash. His jaw clenched, and for a moment, something dangerous flickered in his eyes. He studied me with an intensity that made me want to step backward, but I held my ground.

"You're serious, aren't you?" he said after a long moment, his voice flat and cold.

Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the tension seemed to drain out of him. His features relaxed, and he turned away from me to dump the empty container in the sink. "Sorry to disappoint you," he said without looking back, "but I don't hurt old people."

He began washing the container with methodical precision, his movements careful and controlled. There was something in his posture, something in the way he avoided my eyes, that made me realize I had crossed a line. The accusation had hit him harder than I had expected, and I felt a familiar stab of regret pierce through my chest.

This was the same person who had saved me from those men, who had put himself at risk to help a stranger. And here I was, repaying his kindness by accusing him of taking advantage of a vulnerable old woman. The shame burned in my throat like acid.

I opened my mouth to apologize, to take back the words that had clearly wounded him more than I had intended. But before I could speak, a familiar voice rang out from behind me, cutting through the tension like a knife.

"Ah, there you are!"

I turned to see Natasia standing in the hallway, and the sight of her hit me like a physical blow. Her blonde hair was tousled and messy, clearly showing the effects of sleep—or lack thereof. But what really caught my attention was what she was wearing: a long t-shirt that was obviously too big for her, hanging down to her mid-thighs like a dress. It didn't take a genius to figure out whose shirt it was.

The implications crashed over me like a tidal wave. The pieces fell into place with sickening clarity—Nate's state of undress, the sweat on his skin, Natasia's appearance in his borrowed clothes. Only someone with a brick for a brain would fail to understand what it all meant.

A feeling of hurt and disappointment washed over me, so intense and unexpected that it took my breath away. The emotion was sharp and painful, like a knife between my ribs, and I couldn't understand why I was reacting so strongly. Why did it matter what Nate did or who he spent his time with? Why did the sight of Natasia in his shirt make me feel like I had been punched in the stomach?

I looked at Nate, who had turned to look at her as well. Unlike me, he didn't seem surprised by her appearance. 

"I'll take the container later," I said, my voice sounding strange and hollow even to my own ears. I didn't wait for a response. I simply turned and walked out of the house, my feet carrying me away from a situation I couldn't process and didn't want to understand.

It's none of my business, I told myself as I walked back across the street toward my own house. 

But then why was there a heavy feeling sitting in my heart.