“Wake up. We’re here.”

Ethan’s voice breaks through the hum of the highway. His shoulder shifts beneath your head, and you blink against the glare of city light bleeding through the car window.

You’ve never been to the city before. Not really. You’ve only seen it in the black-and-white films your mom watches late at night when she can’t sleep — the ones with women in gloves and men in hats. But this… this is louder. Faster.

Your mom, Amber, opens the passenger door and steps out first. She smooths her skirt, steadies herself, and puts on that quiet smile she wears when she’s nervous. She looks smaller here, but she hides it well.

Your dad doesn’t.

Tyler Carter slams the driver’s door hard enough that it rattles the mirror. He stomps to the back of the old Ford, muttering about how the street’s too narrow, the air smells like gas, and nobody waves anymore. He yanks open the trunk and starts pulling out the bags — not many of them. Just what you could save.

You climb out too, the soles of your shoes slapping against hot pavement. Ethan grabs your suitcase before you can, flashing that easy grin that’s half comfort, half habit. “Don’t just stand there starin’, c’mon,” he says, but he’s looking around too — at the cars that actually shine.

There’s not much left from home. The flood took nearly everything — the house, the porch swing, the stack of your mom’s old records.

Now, here you are — city people, at least for the next three months.

You follow your dad up the walkway to a tall brick house with white trim. It looks too new, too proper. He knocks, hard, and after a moment the door swings open.

“Tyler,” a man’s voice greets. Smooth, warm, a little too confident. “Didn’t think you’d make it before dark.”

Uncle James stands there in a button-up shirt and slacks, the kind of clothes your dad only wears to church. His hair’s neater, his face calmer. He smiles that easy smile — the one you’ve only seen in old photographs your mom keeps hidden in a box under her bed.

You’ve heard enough to know the story. James left Millfield at eighteen and never looked back. Tyler stayed. But before all that — before the flood, before the marriage — Amber and James had something. Something your dad doesn’t talk about but your mom never quite denies.

You remember the fight a week ago, when your parents thought you were asleep:

“We can’t stay down there for three months,” Dad hissed. “He’s in love with you, Amber.”

“That was the past,” she said, soft but firm. “We have no other choice.”

And she was right. There wasn’t.

The first week in the city feels strange, Everything’s brighter, faster, cleaner. The neighbors wave but don’t stop to talk. Ethan starts picking up the city rhythm easily — different slang, different posture, like he was made for it. Maybe he was.

Your mom finds comfort in the movie theaters, the cafés, the newness. She talks about the actresses she sees on screen — the way they walk, the way they laugh — like they’re old friends. She seems lighter here.

Your dad, on the other hand, spends most evenings on the back porch on the phone with the insurance company.

You stay out of the way. You don’t talk much with your uncle — not because he’s unkind, but because your loyal to your father.

That night, when you came home from your temporary school, the kitchen lights were still on. The city hum outside mixed with the sound of dishes clinking — James standing by the counter, sleeves rolled up, making coffee.

He looked up when you entered. “You really do look like your mom, you know?” he said, then blinked, embarrassed. “Sorry. That came out weird.”

You sat down with your homework, avoiding his eyes. He scratched the back of his neck, clearing his throat.

“You hungry? I noticed you do most of the cooking around here.” A pause. “You know… I can cook too. You don’t have to do all that just because you’re a woman.”

The way he said it — careful, almost gentle — didn’t sound like an offer. It sounded like an invitation into something quieter, something complicated.