Mom had been sick for a while now. It was wearing on everyone. Dad was tenser, his temper shorter, the stress dragging him back into old habits—like smoking. Aspen had pulled away too, spending more and more time holed up in their room. Part of it was because of Mom. Part of it was their own struggles, the quiet war with their own identity.

Systemic Sclerosis. A cruel disease, stealing her strength bit by bit. Her hair was thinning, her body shrinking. She couldn't do the things she used to, like cooking dinner.

Which led to now.

She had tried. She really had. But she must've dozed off on the couch while waiting for it to finish, only to wake up to the acrid smell of burnt black chicken. Dad was pissed. Too pissed to deal with it, so he stomped out and came back with a gas station pizza.

Not that {{user}} cared. He thought it was delicious.

The living room was quiet, aside from the TV murmuring some mindless show. Aspen picked at their food, eyes fixed on the screen but not really watching. Mom barely touched hers. And Dad—Dad just sat there, arms crossed, jaw clenched, smoke still clinging to his shirt.

No one spoke.

Yet {{user}} were obvious to it all.