Chapter 1. Rebuilding, Not Just Unpacking

January 10th, 2:21 PM

I stop at the top of the stairs, staring—not at the boxes, not at the furniture we’re still pretending belongs here—but at the house itself.

It still feels too big. Too empty. Too not ours.

The walls are bare, the floors too clean. It doesn’t smell like us yet—no faint traces of paint thinner on Jessica’s hands, no lingering scent of Tom’s midnight popcorn. Just newness. Sterile and waiting.

Houses need living in before they feel like home.

I exhale, turning in a slow circle. We need to take up space here. Before the silence swallows us whole.

Jessica’s room is quiet. Too quiet.

No music bleeding through the walls. No charcoal scratching against paper. No dramatic gasps at whatever absurd fan theory she’s deep-diving into today.

Tom’s room? Empty.

He disappeared after breakfast, off to do something that didn’t involve navigating this place. Avoidance looks different on both of them, but it’s the same feeling underneath: we don’t fit here yet.

Fine. If they won’t claim it, I will.

Time to make this house ours.

I start with Jessica’s room. The bedspread she swore she didn’t care about—the one she stuffed into the donation pile twice but kept pulling back at the last second—goes onto the mattress. '

Jewel tones. Chaotic brushstrokes.

It looks like a painting caught mid-explosion.

Perfect.

I scatter her sketchbooks across the desk, exactly the way she’d leave them. Half-open, pages curling at the corners, charcoal smudged where her fingers pressed too hard.

Tom’s room is easier.

A snapshot of him and Leo—grinning mid-laugh, frozen in a moment that probably started with some dumb joke—lands on the nightstand. His favorite hoodie gets draped over the chair, because I know he’ll grab it without thinking, shove his hands in the pockets like second nature.

Small things. But our things.

I step into the hallway, pressing a hand flat against the wall. The paint is smooth, fresh. It doesn’t know us yet. Doesn’t hold the echoes of Jessica’s sarcasm or Tom’s laughter. Doesn’t remember the way Dan used to fill a room just by existing.

But it will.

I just have to give it time.

And then—

BANG.

The front door slams open, shaking the frame.

“Mom?”

Tom. Loud. Familiar. Home.

“Up here!”

Footsteps—*thunderous, careless, alive*—pound up the stairs. Then he’s there, filling the hallway, eyes darting from room to room, taking in the newly hung curtains, the framed photos, the books scattered across the coffee table like they’ve always been there.

“Whoa! You got a ton done.”

“Trying to make it feel like home.”

“It’s working.”

Then he’s gone, disappearing into his room like nothing happened, already forgetting I exist.

And then—

Jessica.

She lingers in the doorway, arms crossed, weight shifted onto one leg—neutral stance. A careful, deliberate kind of distance, like she’s still deciding if this version of our life deserves to be accepted.

Her eyes skim the room. “It’s… different.”

“We needed different.”

Her lips press together, and for a second, I think she’ll leave. But then—she steps inside. Not fully, just enough for the hem of her sleeve to brush the edge of her desk. Her fingers trail over the bedspread, just for a second. A touch so brief she probably thinks I don’t notice.

I do.

“You didn’t have to do all this…”

“I wanted to.”

Another pause.

Then—softer now—*“It’s like home came with us.”*

My throat tightens. I nod, swallowing whatever emotion is clawing its way up.

From somewhere behind Tom’s door: “My room’s awesome!”

“That was the goal.”

Jessica snorts, the smallest curve of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. But she doesn’t leave.

And then—

A shift. Subtle. Almost imperceptible.

She edges down the stairs, fingers twitching around the phone in her hand. There’s a beat of hesitation. A flicker of something unreadable in her expression.

Then—*a single swipe.*

And—

The Bluetooth speaker crackles to life.

A bright, familiar melody pulses through the house, bouncing off bare walls and empty spaces, filling every silent corner.

I arch a brow.

Jessica shrugs, looking anywhere but at me. “This place needed a soundtrack.”

A laugh escapes before I can stop it. A real, unguarded, alive kind of laugh.

“I’m not arguing.”

And then—Tom bursts from his room, mid-TikTok dance, all flailing limbs and zero coordination. Jessica rolls her eyes, pretending to be unimpressed, but her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile.

And I swear—

With the music shaking the walls, Tom’s terrible dance moves, Jessica’s barely hidden grin—

I feel the house itself exhale.

It doesn’t feel quite like home yet.

But it’s starting to belong to us.