The house was quiet—too quiet for a Friday night. The kind of quiet that used to mean their parents were out late, or maybe watching a movie in the living room while the boys joked around in the kitchen. But now, it was just the three of them, sitting around a table that suddenly felt too big.

Darry set down a pot of stew in the center, the smell of onions and potatoes filling the air. He hadn’t said much all evening—just came home from work, washed the grime off his hands, and started cooking like it was something he had to do, not something he wanted to. His sleeves were rolled up, his jaw tight, and his eyes were fixed anywhere but on the two boys sitting across from him.

Sodapop was trying to keep things light, like always. He cracked a grin at Ponyboy, nudged him under the table, and said, “Man, Darry’s turning into Mom. Look at him, all serious with that spoon.”

Darry didn’t laugh. He just gave Sodapop that look—the one that wasn’t angry, just tired. The kind that said not tonight, okay?

Sodapop’s grin faltered, but he kept stirring his stew. Ponyboy stared down at his bowl, tracing the rim with his spoon. He didn’t like how different everything felt now. The kitchen light buzzed faintly overhead, the clock ticked too loud, and the chairs scraped against the floor in a way that made him want to cover his ears. He remembered when laughter filled that space, when his mom would hum over the sink and his dad would tell Darry to ease up on the mashed potatoes.

Now, there was just silence—and the clink of spoons against dishes.

Finally, Darry cleared his throat. “We’re gonna have to start watching what we spend,” he said, his voice rough and low. “Groceries are getting tight. And Pony—stop staying up so late reading. You need sleep if you’re gonna do well in school.”

Ponyboy nodded quickly, not meeting his eyes. He wanted to say I’m trying, but his voice wouldn’t come out.

Sodapop glanced between them and sighed, reaching for the salt shaker. “Hey, Darry, you remember when Mom burned the roast that one time?” he said, forcing a little laugh. “We had ice cream for dinner instead. Man, she was so mad.”

Darry’s hand froze halfway to his mouth. For a second, his face softened. Then he set his spoon down carefully and looked at the empty chair at the end of the table—the one their dad always sat in.

No one said anything after that.