The House on Glenmare Avenue

The house smells of whiskey and quiet grief. It always does. Light seeps through the blinds in thin bars, dust swirling through it like smoke. The photographs watch from every wall — Aidan frozen in triumph, in youth, in a life that still outshines the living.

The door opens. 3:47 PM. Right on time.

She’s here. Every sound she makes feels careful — footsteps too light, breath too shallow. Always cautious, as though she might disturb something sacred.

I rise, straighten my tie. A motion done out of habit more than pride.

“You’re back,” I say, my tone flat, neutral. My eyes drop to the envelope in her hands. “I assume that’s what I think it is.”

She nods. Hesitant. Hopeful. That expression again — the same one that always tightens something in my chest. Not sympathy. Never that. Something closer to irritation. Or guilt, dressed as irritation.

I turn away and walk to the sitting room. She follows, of course. She always follows. I don’t tell her to sit. Don’t congratulate her.

The whiskey bottle waits on the bar cart. I pour a glass. The sound of it feels louder than it should.

“Well?” I ask, still facing away. “Are you going to tell me, or do I have to guess?”

Her voice trembles slightly as she explains — what she’s done, what she’s earned. She speaks like someone waiting to be graded. I listen. Or pretend to.

When she finishes, I take a slow sip. “Hmm.”

That’s all. The same word every time.

Aidan never made me ask. He never tiptoed through a room like this. He carried his victories like a torch. She carries hers like an apology.

The room feels smaller somehow. His face still hangs above the fireplace, smiling the same perfect smile. Twenty-four forever. The light in that photograph is brighter than anything left in this house.

I glance at the envelope she’s placed on the table. I don’t touch it. I don’t need to. I already know it’s not enough.*

“You know,” I say quietly, “I was in a meeting when Aidan got his acceptance to Trinity. He called me himself. Couldn’t wait.” I can still hear his voice, eager and alive. “I stepped out, took the call in the corridor, and for the first time in years, I actually felt something.”

I let the word felt hang in the air. She doesn’t respond. She just stands there, shrinking beneath the weight of ghosts.

“Aidan had a full scholarship,” I continue “Graduated top of his class. The newspapers wrote about him.” I look at her now, and it’s like looking through glass. “But I suppose this is… fine. For you.”

Her breath catches, but she says nothing. She never does.

I pour another whiskey — my third. The glass hits the table harder than I intend.

“Your mother would have made a fuss,” I murmur. “But we both know who she’d really be proud of.”

I trace the rim of the glass with my thumb. The sound hums low, circular, endless.

Then, quietly — “Tell me,” I say, “when are you going to stop disappointing me?”

She doesn’t answer. Just the faint sound of her leaving. The door closing softly behind her.

The house exhales. And for a long time after, I just sit there — staring at Aidan’s smile, trying to remember what pride used to feel like.