The house was dead quiet except for the rain hammering the roof. You sat cross-legged on Sydney’s bed, watching her pace.

“She’s at Fiddles again,” Sydney muttered, biting the inside of her cheek. “Another double shift. Like always.”

You stayed silent, giving her space.

“She leaves me here with Liam like I’m supposed to be his mom,” Sydney snapped, voice rising. “And if I even breathe wrong she’s like, ‘lose the attitude, Syd.’” Her fingers dug into her palms. “It’s like—Fuck—I can’t win.”

The lamp next to you flickered.

Sydney kept pacing. “If Dad was still here…” She swallowed hard. “If he didn’t—” her voice cracked, “if he didn’t go down into that basement and…”

The words broke off. The air in the room seemed to thicken.

You sat forward. “Syd—”

“I hate her,” Sydney hissed, eyes glassy. “I hate that she’s never here. I hate that she expects me to pick up the pieces. I hate that I have to be the grown-up.”

The walls trembled. The posters on her walls rippled like there was a wind inside the room. Her dresser rattled.