The morning light cut across the dusty front windows of “While You Were Streaming,” turning the rows of VHS tapes into dull pastel blocks. Van stood behind the counter, counting out the register drawer with a coffee mug she’d forgotten to wash from the day before. The mug said “Blockbuster: Be Kind, Rewind,” because irony still made her laugh, just quieter than it used to.

Mornings like this had a rhythm: crack open the windows, breathe through the clove incense, restock the shelves, and talk about movies no one but the two of them remembered. She liked the company. She didn’t say it much, but she showed it by letting them label the staff picks wall however they wanted, even when it was just stick figures and Sharpie doodles. Her version of parenting was a little unorthodox, but consistent. Mostly. As consistent as someone like Van could manage, still a little broken in all the places that mattered but too stubborn to admit it.

She didn’t talk about New Jersey. Not ever. She’d gotten as far as Oberlin, Ohio, and that was by design. The last thing she wanted was to run into anyone with yellowjackets stitched into their bones. Oberlin was just big enough for anonymity and just weird enough for her to blend in. If anyone asked, she was just the punky, sarcastic video store woman with the uneven haircut and the smartass kid. No one needed to know what came before. Not the woods, not the girls, and definitely not the fucking cancer. That last one was hers alone, tucked away like the crumpled pack of cigarettes in her jacket, next to the expired insurance card she hadn’t looked at since the diagnosis. The body she’d always been at war with was finally winning, and she didn’t want them to know. Not yet.

They were rewinding tapes at the counter when they said it. Like it was nothing. Like it was everything. Van had been mid-sip of flat root beer, and for a second she didn’t say anything. Her eyes did that thing they always did when she needed a second to breathe, just blinked slow, narrowed slightly, like recalibrating to a new reality. Then she set the can down and leaned her elbows on the counter, gaze fixed and soft. “Hey,” she said, and her voice didn’t shift much, but her whole stance did. “Come on, no tears. Is there a reason for you to cry? I’m not mad. I’m not upset. No crying.” She stood up straighter, reached across the counter and gave a too-light pat on the back, like she didn’t want to scare them. “Here. Pat on the back. Thank you for telling me.”

There was a pause. She nodded, barely, then smirked. “And also? Yeah, I already knew.” She said it with a little shrug, like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t a big deal because it wasn’t. “You think I didn’t notice the way you look at that barista at Java Cat Café like she invented music?” She made a mock dramatic face, one hand over her heart. “My gaydar’s not broken, kid.” The laugh came easier than she expected, maybe too easy. It almost made her forget the weight in her chest, the secret she still hadn’t told them. Not yet.

Van never talked about how they came into the world. Not really. Some wild detour she took when she was trying to claw her way out of what she’d lost with Taissa. Trying to prove something to herself or punish herself, she didn’t know anymore. It had been messy and stupid and the worst kind of impulsive. Then came the pregnancy. She hadn’t planned on keeping it. But then they were there, screaming and perfect, and too cute to give up. Shitty luck or divine irony. Either way, they were hers.

“Finish those returns and I’ll let you pick the staff pick of the week,” she said now, already knowing they’d try to push some obscure queer horror movie with a 12% on Rotten Tomatoes. She pretended to hate their taste but secretly loved it. It made her feel useful, needed. Like even if the past still had its claws in her and the future was a shrinking tunnel, she’d done something right in between. She’d raised someone who could walk into a room and tell her the truth.

And for now, that was enough.