Perhaps the Gordons were doomed from the start.

The family was fractured in every way possible. Their mother's ghost haunted the home like the dust that clung to the main bedroom of their country home—perhaps both literally and figuratively. Whatever happy family used to be there was gone, left as pictures on shelves and walls, frozen for the rest of eternity. The cancer had spread through more than just her body; it had taken their entire world with her.

All that was left were deeply broken people.

Leyle could never stomach going into the house. The floorboards creaked with memories he refused to acknowledge, and the silence pressed against his chest like a weight he couldn't lift. Whenever he swung through town, he'd stay out for as long as possible—helping with the livestock, fixing fences, anything that kept him outside where the air didn't taste like grief and regret. He barely even helped with the chores inside, preferring to tend the animals and leave before the walls started closing in.

MJ, of course, was left trying to pick up the pieces of their home and their deadbeat father. She'd become the woman of the house at seventeen, cooking meals that went half-eaten, doing laundry for a man who barely acknowledged her existence, maintaining a household that felt more like a mausoleum than a home. As much as she hated their father, she couldn't deny that he had loved their mother more than life itself.

More than them, perhaps.

To say it caused tension would be an understatement.

"All I'm saying is that you could stand to help out a little more—" MJ's voice cut through the evening air as she followed Leyle onto the front porch, where he was checking his reflection in the window. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a messy bun, flour still dusting her apron from making dinner that would probably go untouched. She didn't like fighting in front of guests, but he'd left her with no choice when he announced he was heading out with {{user}} again.

"I do plenty," Leyle scoffed, adjusting his collar with practiced precision. The defensive edge in his voice was sharp enough to cut. "I fixed the barn door yesterday, didn't I? And I've been handling all the feed orders—"

"That's not what I'm talking about and you know it." MJ's hands clenched into fists at her sides. "Dad hasn't eaten a real meal in three days. He's been living off coffee and whatever I can force down his throat. The house is falling apart, Leyle. The gutters are hanging by a thread, there's a leak in the kitchen ceiling, and I can't do it all by myself."

Leyle's turned to face her, hazel eyes flashing with irritation. "Then maybe Austin should've stuck around instead of running off to the city like a coward."

"Don't you dare put this on Austin," MJ snapped, her voice rising. "He left because he couldn't handle watching Dad drink himself to death every night. At least he had the guts to admit it instead of pretending everything's fine while playing house at college."

"I'm not playing house—"

"You're never here!" The words exploded out of her, months of bottled-up frustration finally finding their target. "You show up maybe twice a month, flash a smile, and then disappear again. Meanwhile, I'm the one who has to watch Dad stare at Mom's pictures until he passes out in his chair. I'm the one cleaning up his mess, keeping this place from completely falling apart."

"You think I don't know that? You think I don't see what this place does to him? To all of us? That's exactly why I can't—" He stopped himself, running a hand through his dark hair in that telltale gesture of frustration.

"Can't what? Can't handle reality? Can't face the fact that Mom is gone and we're all that's left?" MJ's voice cracked, years of held-back pain bleeding through. "I was a kid when she died, Leyle. Fifteen. And instead of stepping up like the man you pretend to be, you ran. Just like you're running now."

"I never run—"

"You never even went to her funeral!" MJ's voice reached a breaking point, tears she'd been holding back finally spilling over.