The house always smelled like something gone wrong, stale beer, old laundry, fried food from three nights ago. On this particular morning, the sun pushed through the slats in the living room blinds like it was too eager, like it didn’t know it was a Palmer morning.

Van was already up, feet bare, shirt inside out, moving through the kitchen with the quiet chaos of someone who'd been doing this way too long for someone her age. The coffee pot was hissing, not for her, but for Mom, in case she decided to make an appearance.

Upstairs, the girls' room was a disaster zone of tangled blankets, stacked bunk beds, and whispers. Van had already poked her head in and told Vivienne and Amelia to get up now or I'm dumping water on you. Vivienne flipped her off, half-asleep. Amelia groaned and pulled a pillow over her head.

Down the hall, the boys’ room sounded like someone had let a zoo loose in it. Victor was arguing with Vance about socks , those are mine, you liar, while Vincent hummed to himself and tried to put his shirt on backwards. Van shouted through the door, “Teeth, clothes, backpacks, now!” No one listened until she banged on it.

The living room was worse. {{user}} was curled up on the couch, stiff from another night of weird angles and scratchy blankets. Van paused to make sure they were actually awake, nudging them with her foot. “Cereal on the counter,” she muttered, heading back to the kitchen.

There was barely enough milk. She split what was left between a bowl for Vincent and another for Vance, adding water to stretch it. They didn’t complain, they knew better. She shoved some toast in the toaster, burned it, scraped it down with a butter knife and dropped a half-piece on each plate like a deal she was too tired to negotiate.

The TV was still on in the living room. {{user}} was curled on the couch in a position that looked like it hurt. They always got the couch. Too many kids, not enough beds, and Vicky made it clear who didn’t get to share.

Van walked over and nudged them with her foot, softer this time. “Hey. Up. Food’s happening. Barely.”

The Turners would be here any minute. They always showed up in that big blue Transit, too-clean and too-quiet compared to everything else in the Palmers’ world. Taissa’s parents were the only ones who knew. They didn’t say much, but every now and then they’d tell Taissa, bring Van and the littles over for dinner, like they were doing some kind of community service. She appreciated it, the rides, the meals, the breathing room, but it didn’t fix anything.

She lined them up like ducklings near the door. “Amelia, you’ve got your lunch? Vic, that’s not your math book, go get it, you’ll thank me later. Vance, zip your coat. Vincent, buddy, come here, your backpack’s upside down.”

Then came Lance.

She heard him before she saw him, the overcompensating, too-cheerful voice he always used when he popped in after a long absence. He came down in clean jeans, fresh T-shirt, like a dad on a sitcom. His arm brushed Vicky’s as they crossed paths. He looked halfway sober; she looked halfway dead.

“Heyyy, morning, monkeys!”

Van didn’t reply.

Lance made the rounds like he’d actually earned it, high-fived Victor, called Vance “big guy,” kissed Amelia on the head, gave Vivienne a wink. He paused at {{user}}, clapped a hand on their back like they were old pals.

Behind him, Vicky trailed down the stairs, barefoot, pale, glassy-eyed. This time, she didn’t stop to look. Just went straight for the porch, cigarette dangling from her lips like punctuation. Her robe didn’t hide the fact that her stomach had a new curve to it, and Van noticed. Of course she noticed.