Chapter 1. Rebuilding, Not Just Unpacking

Fresh Paint Can’t Cover Old Memories

January 5th, 9:14 AM

(Day One in the House That’s Not Home Yet)

I shouldn’t feel like this.

But I do.

It’s just a house. Just walls, windows, a door that doesn’t know my name yet. A fresh start. That’s what people say, right? New beginnings. Blank slates.

Except blank slates don’t exist. The past doesn’t erase. It stains. It follows. It sinks into your bones and waits.

And right now, it’s waiting for me on this doorstep.

I tighten my grip on the moving truck, metal biting into my palm. My kids are already inside, their footsteps swallowed by the house, carrying pieces of our old life through a door that doesn’t feel like ours yet.

The walls are watching.

Or maybe I’m imagining it.

I swallow against the tightness in my throat.

"Mom?"

Jessica.

She stands by the truck, hugging a box labeled Kitchen like it weighs a thousand pounds. Her fingers dig into the cardboard edges, jaw locked.

I know that look.

She’s daring me to offer help. Daring me to push. So she can push back.

She’s always been like this. Stubborn. Fierce. A walking storm front with too much of Dan’s fire in her bones.

"Where do you want this?"

Flat voice. Carefully neutral. But the way her arms tighten says: don’t you dare baby me.

"By the front door, honey. We’ll load those last."

A flicker of tension—so small I almost miss it. Then: an eye roll.

The box drops.

Thud.

Too loud. Too final. Like a door slamming in a house I can’t find my way through anymore.

"Jessica, please—be careful!"

Too sharp. Too fast. Regret kicks in before the words have even fully left my mouth.

Wrong tone, wrong words, wrong moment.

She flinches. Just barely.

Then—mask up, walls reinforced—she tosses her purple-streaked hair, shrugs, and stomps inside.

"Whatever."

And she’s gone.

I exhale, rubbing at my temple. One fight at a time. One breath at a time.

I’m not mad at her. I’m just—on edge. Why do I always snap at the wrong moment? Why do I never say the right thing?

Tom hops up next, scooping two boxes like they weigh nothing. When did he get so tall? So solid? His voice is deeper than I remember. Like he grew up when I wasn’t looking.

"I’ve got these."

"Thanks, honey. Let’s get this done."

We shuffle inside.

It smells wrong.

Fresh paint. New wood. Like emptiness waiting to be filled. Too clean, too perfect—like nobody’s ever lived here. Like nobody’s ever cried in this house. Or laughed so hard they choked. Or curled up in a too-big bed, pretending they didn’t miss someone who should still be here.

The air sits wrong on my skin.

“Not bad, right?” I try. “Look at all this sunlight.”

Jessica’s voice drifts down the stairs.

“It’s smaller.”

I turn.

She stands at the top, arms crossed, defiant chin tilt. Half Dan, half me.

“It has a bay window. Great light for your art.”

No reaction.

Not even a flicker.

“More like Spider Central.”

Direct hit.

I pretend it doesn’t sting.

Dan would’ve known what to say. He would’ve made her laugh. Called the spiders art critics or something. He would’ve gotten through to her.

I try anyway. “Maybe they’ll applaud your work with a few webs.”

Silence.

Then—Jessica turns. Walks up the stairs.

No door slam.

Just a soft click.

And somehow—**that hurts worse.

Is it weird that I almost wish she’d just yell at me?

Tom sets his boxes down, pats my shoulder. Like he’s the grown-up. Maybe he is.

“She just needs time. We both do.”

I swallow. “When did you become a teen psychologist?”

He shrugs. “I watch those philosophy videos. The ones about letting go and stuff.”

A laugh escapes. Small. But real.

“Wow, Plato. Lucky me.”

“Better than joining a doomsday cult or something.”

“Smart aleck.” I shove his shoulder.

And for a second, we’re normal.

Then I reach for a box labeled Living Room.

And everything shifts.

It’s there.

Right on top. Like it climbed out of the past just to sucker punch me in the gut.

The old Christmas album.

The spine held together with duct tape. It flops open on its own, like it knows what I need to see.

Dan.

Grinning. Lit up from the inside. Wearing that god-awful reindeer sweater.

Jessica—unwrapping her first real oil paints, eyes wide with wonder.

Tom—half in the frame, mid-eye roll. Probably groaning at another one of Dan’s spectacularly bad dad jokes.

My breath stutters.

Dan’s smile is so real it almost tricks me. Almost.

If I turn my head fast enough—

If I reach for him—

If I just—

I press my thumb to the edge of the photo. It doesn’t change.

It doesn’t move.

Just ink on paper.

Just before.

"Feels like I’m betraying him. Packing up our old life. Moving on."

"He wanted us to live, Mom. Even if it’s… different."

Different.

I hate that word.

It sounds harmless. So benign. But it’s not. It’s a gaping chasm between what we had and what we’re left with.

"Mom?"

Jessica.

She sees the album.

Her face tightens.

"That’s Christmas. When Dad got me my first real paints."

I nod. "Yeah. You started painting before you even finished ripping off the wrapping paper."

She steps closer. Smells like grapefruit shampoo.

"He didn’t even freak out when I dripped paint on the carpet." A breathy laugh. Fragile. "Just called it living-room art. So cheesy."

"Total Dad move." Tom grins.

And then—

She shuts the album. Hard.

"Jess? Everything okay?"

No answer.

She sets it down—carefully, like it might burn her fingers—then heads for the door.

"Where are you going?" Keep your voice steady. Don’t let the panic show.

"Out."

Tight voice. A catch, almost. Tears or anger—I can’t tell which.

The door clicks shut.

I stare at it. At the space she just occupied. My feet ache to follow. To catch her. To fix this.

But what would I even say?

Would Dan have known?

Would it have even mattered?

Tom shifts beside me. "She does this a lot now, huh?"

"Yeah."

Another pause.

Then—the door swings open.

Jessica.

Windblown. Flushed. Shaking.

Her hair’s tangled from the wind, strands plastered against her cheeks, stiff with cold. Her hoodie—too thin, too soaked through with the damp winter air—clings to her frame. No jacket. No gloves. Bare hands curled into fists, knuckles red, chapped from the wind.

Her shoulders are hunched, her breath sharp and uneven, like she ran half the way back. Or maybe just stood outside too long, debating.

Should I go in?

Should I stay out here, let the cold do what it does?

Do I even want to come back?

Her eyes flick up.

Raw.

She doesn’t step forward. Doesn’t take off her shoes. Just stands in the doorway, cold seeping in with her, filling up the space between us.

Her lips part, and for a second, I think she might say something real.

But instead—

"I hate this place."

The words drop between us. Sharp. Final.

Then she’s gone.

Footsteps. A door slam.

I flinch.

The silence afterward is unbearable.

Tom lets out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well… at least she came back.”

A weak attempt at humor. But his voice is tight. Stretched thin over something heavier. Something worried.

I stare at the ceiling.

This house is too quiet.

Too loud. Too empty. Too full.

She hates this place.

If I’m honest? I might, too.

But we’re here. And that’s a start.