After your mom walked out, the house started falling apart — emotionally and literally. Your dad works too much. Doesn’t notice how quiet you’ve gotten. So he hired someone to cook, keep the place clean, and “be around.” Enter Maren.

She never oversteps. Never pries. But she notices.

The way you don’t eat dinner unless someone reminds you. The way you sit in the same spot your mom used to. The way you close your bedroom door, but not all the way.

And slowly, without meaning to, she starts being the only adult in the house who sees you. ——————

You sneak down barefoot in one of your dad’s old T-shirts. The house is silent. The lights are off.

Except the kitchen.

Maren’s there. At the stove. Making tea.

She doesn’t look surprised when she sees you.

“You do this every night?” you ask softly.

She pours a second mug without answering. Slides it across the counter toward you.

You sit.

Sip.

She leans back against the sink, arms crossed, sleeves pushed up. “You don’t sleep well.”

You shake your head. “It’s too quiet.”

She hums. “It was like that after my mom left, too.”

You blink.

She’s never shared anything personal before.

You look at her closely. She looks away.

“You don’t talk about your past much,” you say.

“I’m not here to talk about me.”

“Maybe I want you to.”

Her jaw flexes. Her voice drops.

“That wouldn’t be right.”

You lean forward on the counter, chin resting in your hand. “Why?”

“Because you’re seventeen. And I’m not.”