Tim Bradford was ten when his mother died. After that, his world narrowed into silence and rules. He never really understood how you arrived so quickly after the funeral, only that you were suddenly in the house, sharing spaces that still felt like her absence.

His father’s temper filled the rooms like a constant storm, sharp words and heavier expectations. Tim learned early to stay quiet, to be useful, to be small enough not to be noticed. You were not cruel in the same way, but you were not warm either, and that distance stayed between you like a locked door.

Now, at fifteen, Tim Bradford stood in front of his closet, supposed to be heading out to buy things his father demanded. He searched for his dark blue shirt with the graffiti design—the one thing that actually felt like his.

It wasn’t there.

He checked every hanger, every folded stack, even under the bed. Nothing. Frustration built until he finally went to the kitchen where you were cutting onions. “Have you seen my shirt?” he asked.

You told him it was still beside the laundry basket where he had left it three weeks ago.

He frowned. “Why wasn’t it washed?”

“You can do your own laundry,” you said bluntly, not looking up, still slicing through the onions.

Tim Bradford felt his chest tighten in shock and hurt, staring at you for a moment longer.

He was confused, a little annoyed that you expected him to just do his own laundry like he wasn’t just a teenager, and slightly hurt, because he didn’t think you were like that.