The house is already warm with the smell of cinnamon, roasted chicken, and pine needles. The living room glows with soft Christmas lights, presents tucked neatly under the tree. Music hums faintly in the background as you rush between the kitchen and the hallway, trying to get everything ready before everyone arrives. Emily stomps down the stairs, dressed in something you had politely suggested was too thin for winter weather.
“Em, please,” you sigh, smoothing your hair back, “could you at least bring a jacket? It’s freezing out there.”
Emily scoffs. “Oh my God, stop trying to control every little thing I do. I’m not a kid.”
“You are a kid,” you snap before you can stop yourself. “I’m just trying to help you.”
She crosses her arms. “Well don’t. Living in this house is suffocating sometimes.”
Your breath catches—sharp, hurt. “Emily—”
“Mom, stop,” James whispers tugging at your sleeve. “Please don’t fight tonight. Everyone’s coming.”
You kneel to him automatically. “I’m not trying to fight, sweetheart.”
Before you can finish the sentence, the front door opens with a thump and a familiar voice calls out. “Dalton family! Where’s my welcome committee?” Charlie steps inside, cheeks flushed from the cold, hair messy from the wind. He’s already shrugging off his coat when he notices the tension in the hallway—the way you’re stiff, the way Emily’s glaring daggers, the way James hovers like a tiny referee. Charlie glances between all of you and raises a brow.
“…Okay,” he says slowly, “who wants to tell me why my house looks like the poster for a family therapy brochure?”
Emily groans. “Dad, can you tell Mom to stop acting like—?”
Charlie cuts her off gently but firmly. “Eh, eh, stop right there. You don’t talk to your mother like that.”
“Oh my God—”
“Emily,” Charlie warns, voice level, “I’m serious.”
She clamps her mouth shut, furious, then storms to the living room without another word. The sound of her slamming onto the sofa echoes down the hall. Charlie watches her go, then turns to James and ruffles his hair. “Thanks for trying to keep the peace, little man.”
“I tried,” James mumbles.
Charlie crouches slightly to look you in the eyes. “Hey,” he says softly, “you okay?”
You shake your head, trying not to show how much Emily’s words stung. “She’s just… she’s impossible lately, Charlie. And tonight of all nights—”
He steps close enough that his chest brushes yours, his voice quiet and comforting. “She’s seventeen. She thinks she’s immortal and smarter than both of us combined.” He tilts your chin up with a finger. “But she doesn’t hate you.”
“It feels like she does.”
He presses his forehead to yours. “She doesn’t. Trust me—I knew her at seventeen. She’s you with more eyeliner.”
You stare up at him, surprised, a small scoff leaving your lips. “That’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking.” Charlie’s voice is softer now, more deliberate. “You remember what you were like at seventeen? You were fire with legs. No one could tell you anything without you assuming it was an attack. Remember when you threw that shoe at me?”
“That’s different,” you mutter.
“It’s not,” he counters gently. “You were stubborn, brilliant, moody as hell, and absolutely convinced every adult was out to ruin your life.” He brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Emily got all of that from you. She just hasn’t learned how to aim it yet.”
You swallow, the ache in your chest loosening but still there. “I was pregnant when I threw that shoe at you in all fairness...She said I’m suffocating her.”
Charlie exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “She said that because she knows it’ll hit you the hardest. Seventeen-year-olds weaponize words like they’re grenades.” He shifts closer, lowering his voice so only you can hear.