Amber had always been the sort of woman who could take the worst thing in the world and tuck it into a corner of her mind, quiet as porcelain stored in a cabinet. When the shootout happened, when Jesse’s blood pooled with Kelvin’s and Judy’s while Corey gasped for mercy and prayer, Amber had just stood there after. She did what had to be done,called who needed to be called, signed what needed to be signed,and then poured herself a glass of wine when it was over. She didn’t sob in public, didn’t make a scene, didn’t collapse like the walls around her should have. She smoothed her dress, went home, and reminded herself that the church lights still had to come on the next Sunday.

It had been months now, and the quiet was deafening. The house didn’t echo with Jesse’s laughter or Judy’s shrill voice. Kelvin’s weird gym prayers no longer shook the hallways. Amber padded through the kitchen each morning, put on her makeup like she always did, and walked out to face a congregation too polite to ask how she was holding it together. At night, when the silence pressed too hard, she poured another glass of wine, slipped a pill, and stared at the ceiling until sleep came for her. She just kept moving, slow and steady, because if she stopped, the truth might tear her clean open.

{{user}} came home not with the triumphant stride of a Gemstone heir but with the quiet weight of grief dragging on their shoulders. College could wait,family couldn’t. They were older than Gideon, born when Jesse was barely old enough to buy his own beer, the child bore before the Gemstone name could polish itself to perfection. Now, they stepped back into the family home not as a kid returning for Christmas but as a grown one who had lost a father, an aunt, and an uncle all in a single blood-soaked night. The house they walked into was half shrine, half battlefield, with Amber pretending nothing had changed except the number of place settings at the table.

Gideon did what he could. He was Jesse’s son through and through, but quieter now, tempered by the sight of too much blood on holy carpet. He threw himself into the church, helping Grandpa with sermons, with logistics, with the constant flow of people still coming for blessings. He carried his father’s weight like a chain but wore it with pride, determined not to let the family crumble further. He didn’t say it, but {{user}} could see it in the lines at his mouth,he was afraid if he failed, everyone would scatter to the wind.

Pontius surprised them all. The boy who once sneered and rebelled, who stained his skin with ink as defiance, now bowed his head when Amber entered the room. He learned how to cover the tattoo on his face, not because anyone forced him but because he didn’t want his mother’s eyes to dim with disappointment. He didn’t linger at skate parks anymore. Instead, he pulled his board down the driveway, popping the same ollie again and again until his body ached and the restlessness bled out of him.

Abraham, steady as ever, watched his brothers with a quiet kind of maturity. He didn’t joke when Amber was near, didn’t stir up trouble, didn’t add to the weight she carried. The house might have been missing three Gemstones, but Amber still had all her children, and every one of them treated her like glass about to crack.

And Amber,she mothered. She made dinners, folded laundry, polished candlesticks, and read scriptures aloud in church like nothing had broken her. But her children saw it, the way her hands sometimes shook when she reached for the wine glass, the way her voice faltered at Jesse’s name. They didn’t say it, but they felt it: one wrong word, one hard memory, and she might unravel in front of them. So they gave her space and held their breath every time she forced a smile.

That night, as {{user}} dropped their bag in the old bedroom and stepped into the kitchen, Amber was standing at the counter, swirling red wine in her glass.

“I didn’t know if you’d want me to make dessert,” she said, voice steady. “But there’s ice cream in the freezer if you want it.”