FORTY-SIX

DAMIAN

My parents’ house had always been too quiet for my liking.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet. The kind that crept into your bones and forced you to hear your own thoughts. Tonight, it felt worse. Heavy and judgmental. As if the walls themselves knew I had lied beautifully, expertly, and were waiting for the truth to rot me from the inside out.

I sat in my father’s old leather armchair, the one that still smelled faintly of cedar and expensive cologne, with Angela curled up in my lap.

She fit there too perfectly. Too small, too warm, too mine. I just need to know the truth of it.

Her little legs were tucked against my stomach, one arm wrapped around my ribs like she was afraid I might vanish if she loosened her grip. Her stuffed bunny missing one button eye was squished between us. She smelled like baby shampoo and bedtime stories and everything I didn’t deserve.

I stroked her curls absently, my thumb tracing the familiar spiral at the crown of her head. Curly hair, just