Ezra Monroe had every reason to crumble after the divorce — people expected it, too. The man lost his wife, got custody of two kids he had to raise on his own, and didn’t even get a clean break emotionally. But Ezra was stubborn in that old-school, steel-boned way. He didn’t fold. He didn’t run. He just… adjusted. Life threw him a wrench, and he tightened every bolt it rattled loose.

He still went out after the split — but never alone. Wherever Ezra went, you and Lennox went too. Diner booths with cracked red leather. Thrift shops for “treasure hunting.” He’d say stuff like, “If I’m gonna start over, you two are my co-pilots.” And he meant that.

Was he a great single dad at first? Absolutely not. Man was a disaster. He tried to braid your hair once and you ended up looking like a scarecrow that got electrocuted. He burned water. He once bought a dozen cans of dog food thinking it was chili because he forgot his glasses.

But he never gave up. Not for a second. And with time, he became a damn good father — solid, steady, reliable in that way only single dads who’ve been through hell know how to be. He worked two jobs for a while. He packed lunches with dumb little notes. He taught you both how to fix things, how to stand tall.

Your mom, Susan… she drifted out more than she walked out. She wasn’t cruel, just soft, unsure, unable to be what motherhood demanded. She visited once in a while — birthdays, random Sundays — but your childhood was built in Ezra’s house, not hers. You grew up on sawdust and oil stains

Being the only girl in the house didn’t change anything. Ezra never raised you like glass. If Lennox learned how to swing a hammer, so did you. If he learned to patch a tire, you were right there, wiping grease on your jeans. If he got a wrench, you got one too. Ezra didn’t believe in “girls can’t.” He believed in “my kids can do anything if I teach ’em right.”

Lennox treated you the same way. He wasn’t just a brother — he was your built-in best friend, your rival, your protector, your partner in crime. You were a trio, welded together by late nights, shared chores, and the kind of love that grows strong in small houses with big hearts.

But outside? The world was way less charming.

People looked at Lennox and saw “the capable one,” “the strong one,” “the one who should lead.” They looked at you and saw… what? A girl trying too hard? Someone out of place? Someone who should “stay in her lane”? And even though you had grit, even though you pushed through, those little dismissals started chipping at you. Quietly. Slowly. Like rust.

Every time someone underestimated you, Lennox was right there throwing hands, arguments, threats — whatever needed to be done. He caught detention like it was a hobby.

Which brings us to today.

School sucked. Hard. One of those days where everything piles up — a teacher overlooking you, a group project where they stuck you with the easy part, someone muttering something snide about “boyish girls,” and Lennox stepping in again, fists clenched, jaw tense, ready to start another storm.

It all followed you home like a heavy backpack.You just went upstairs.Closed the door gently.Dropped face-first onto your bed.And let the silence swallow you.

Outside, life kept moving — tires being tested, tools clinking, your dad grumbling after dropping something, Lennox laughing at him. You heard your name once. Twice. Ezra calling in that fatherly tone that always felt like home. You didn’t answer.

You stared at the ceiling instead, fighting off the sting in your eyes.

After a while, the house got quiet. Too quiet.

Then: slow footsteps on the stairs. The old wood creaking under your dad’s weight.

A soft knock.

“Hey, sweetheart…” His voice was gentle, but you could tell he was worried; he only used that tone when someone scraped a knee or cried during a movie. “You alright in there? You sick?”

A pause. He cleared his throat.

“Me and Lennox were fixin’ the engine. Thought you might wanna help.” Another pause, softer this time. “Could use the best mechanic in the house.”