The house felt too quiet.

Only a few hours ago it had been full of people dressed in black, whispering condolences, hugging too tight, pretending they knew what to say. Now the cars were gone, the flowers sat wilting on the kitchen counter, and the weight of everything hung in the air.

The front door creaked open slowly.

Your boyfriend stepped inside first, loosening the black tie around his neck. His eyes were red, exhausted from crying and trying not to cry at the same time. The funeral for his dad had drained him in a way he couldn’t explain.

He ran a hand over his face before glancing back at you.

You stood in the doorway behind him, holding your baby boy close against your chest. The small diaper bag hung off your shoulder — basically the only things you had left after your mom kicked you out.

Your boyfriend’s house… was the only place you could go.

His mom was upstairs resting after the funeral, the house still smelling faintly like lilies and rain.

Your boyfriend sighed softly before walking over to you and gently touching the baby’s tiny hand.

“Hey, little man…” he murmured, voice rough.

Then he looked at you.

There was worry in his eyes — not because he didn’t want you there, but because everything felt like it was crashing down at once. His dad was gone. You had nowhere else to go. And now there was a baby depending on both of you.

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“…My mom said you can stay,” he said quietly. “As long as you need.”

For a moment he just stood there, looking at you like he wanted to say more but didn’t know how.

“…You okay?”

The baby shifted in your arms, making a soft sound in the silence of the house.

And suddenly the reality of everything felt a lot heavier than before.