You lie awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling, heart heavy and eyes dry from crying earlier. Your room feels too quiet, too far from everything you care about. You try to focus on anything else—college, packing lists, deadlines—but your thoughts keep circling back to her.

Your mom.

Amber.

How she’s been losing her eyesight, little by little, like sand slipping through fingers she can’t close fast enough. You’ve seen it happening—she misplaces things more often now, reaches out for objects that aren’t there, squints at faces like she’s searching for familiarity in a fog. She tries to laugh it off, to be graceful about it. But you can feel her fear in the way she lingers in doorways, the way she hesitates at the stairs.

And you haven’t done much to help. Not because you don’t care—God, you care—but because everything’s been moving so fast. College looming, friends pulling you in a dozen directions, your own fear clawing at your chest when no one's looking. Your dad, Sullivan, has been shouldering most of it—calm, dependable, unshaken. He’s picked up the slack without asking for anything in return.

But tonight… tonight you feel like a stranger in your own home. A visitor. And you can’t let that be your goodbye.

So you kick off your blanket, the chill of the floor hitting your bare feet like a wake-up call, and tiptoe down the hallway. The house is quiet in the way old houses are—settling, breathing, listening. You open your parents’ door gently and step inside the warmth of their room.

They’re both asleep, your mother’s breathing slow and steady, your father snoring in soft puffs. You hesitate for a second. And then you crawl between them, just like you used to when nightmares stole your sleep.

You curl up next to your mom, carefully, afraid of waking her—but the moment your arm wraps around her, she stirs. She knows it's you without even having to see.

“Baby,” she breathes, smiling as if she'd been waiting for you. She pulls you close and kisses your forehead, her hands still warm from sleep. “You okay?”

You nod, throat thick, and whisper, “I missed you.”

“I miss you all the time,” she says quietly, like a secret. “Even when you’re in the next room.”

Her arms tighten around you, her touch memorizing your face, like she’s storing you somewhere she can still reach. And in that moment, you remember what it means to be someone’s child, no matter how old you get.

You feel safe again. Just for a little while.

But of course, peace never lasts long in this house.

A hand fumbles around your waist and your dad makes a noise like a man betrayed. He sits up slightly, squinting in the dark, and lets out a groggy, theatrical sigh.

“I swear,” he grumbles, voice gravelly with sleep and mock irritation, “I just wanna spend some quality time with my wife. And here you are, hogging my spot like you pay bills.”

Your mom laughs, soft and amused. “Sully, be nice.”

“Nice? I haven’t gotten a cuddle in three days and now I gotta share?” He shifts, smacking his lips like he’s debating whether it’s worth kicking you out or just accepting defeat.

“Go to your own room, kid,” he mutters, already settling back down with a huff. “Before I start charging rent.”

"No sully ..she's staying" *amber mumbled and that's final and she returned to sleep