Chapter 2: A House That Wasn’t Home

Evelyn’s house stood at the end of a quiet street, painted a pale, unassuming yellow that looked brighter than it felt. To Aaron, it seemed too open, too exposed—like a place where grief would have nowhere to hide.

He stood beside Evelyn’s car, his small suitcase at his feet, staring at the front door.

“This is it,” she said gently, as if announcing something fragile.

Aaron nodded. His throat felt tight.

Inside, the house smelled like lemon cleaner and something baking—normal, comforting things that made his chest ache. The walls were lined with family photos: Lily at different ages, smiling in some, scowling in others. Evelyn with her late husband. No space yet for him.

“This will be your room,” Evelyn said, opening a door at the end of the hall.

The room was small but tidy, the bed neatly made, a desk by the window. Someone—Evelyn, he assumed—had placed clean sheets and a folded blanket on the bed, as if preparing for a guest rather than a boy who might never leave.

Aaron set his suitcase down quietly.

“Dinner will be ready soon,” Evelyn said. “Take your time.”

He nodded again, unsure what to say.

Lily came home just before dinner.

Aaron heard her before he saw her—the slam of the front door, the quick rhythm of her footsteps, the familiar confidence of someone who belonged.

“Mom?” Lily called out. “I’m home.”

“In the kitchen,” Evelyn replied.

Aaron hovered at the edge of the hallway, heart pounding.

Lily walked in, dropping her bag by the door, her eyes lifting—and then stopping.

She stared at him.

He stared back.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Lily was his age, but she carried herself differently—chin lifted, eyes sharp, as if always braced for something. Her gaze flicked over him, taking in his worn jacket, his too-big shoes, the quiet way he stood.

“Who’s that?” she asked flatly.

Evelyn placed a calming hand on Lily’s shoulder. “This is Aaron,” she said. “He’s going to stay with us for a while.”

Lily frowned. “Why?”

The question landed harder than she probably intended.

Evelyn inhaled slowly. “Aaron’s parents were in an accident.”

Something passed over Lily’s face—surprise, discomfort, something like guilt—but it disappeared just as quickly.

“Oh,” she said. “So… he’s staying in my room?”

“No,” Evelyn said firmly. “He has the guest room.”

Lily crossed her arms. “For how long?”

Evelyn met her daughter’s eyes. “As long as he needs.”

That was when Lily’s jaw tightened.

She looked at Aaron again, this time with something closer to resentment.

Aaron shifted uncomfortably, wishing he could make himself smaller.

Dinner was quiet.

Lily poked at her food. Aaron barely touched his. Evelyn tried to fill the silence with small talk—school, the weather, plans for the week—but the tension sat heavy between them.

At one point, Lily spoke without looking at him.

“You don’t have to follow me around,” she said.

Aaron froze. “I wasn’t—”

“I just mean,” she interrupted, “this is my house.”

Evelyn’s voice sharpened slightly. “Lily.”

Lily shrugged. “I’m just saying.”

Aaron nodded, eyes fixed on his plate.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I won’t be in your way.”

The words tasted bitter, but they felt necessary.

That night, Aaron lay awake in the unfamiliar bed, listening to the house settle. Somewhere down the hall, Lily’s door closed with a quiet click.

He wondered if she hated him already.

He wondered if he deserved it.

Across the hallway, Lily sat on her bed, knees pulled to her chest.

She hadn’t expected this.

She hadn’t expected a boy with sad eyes and careful movements to suddenly take up space in her life. She hadn’t expected to feel guilty for wanting things to stay the same.

She stared at her ceiling, unsettled.

Neither of them slept easily.

Neither of them knew that this uneasy beginning—this tension, this distance—would one day become the foundation of something neither could yet imagine.

For now, there was only a house that wasn’t home.