Five years earlier, Daniel’s mother had suffered a stroke. She still lived at home with Richard, Daniel’s father, but she rarely spoke and almost never came downstairs when we visited. Brooke had stepped into the empty space without anyone asking her to. Since then, every birthday, every holiday, and every Sunday dinner had run through her kitchen. She made the guest lists. She handed out the assignments. The rest of the family simply followed.
Daniel adored her. So did everyone else, as far as I could tell.
Even Richard rarely made a decision without asking Brooke first. She liked to laugh and call him “my easiest child,” and the whole table would laugh right along with her.
“Claire!” Her voice floated down the hall. “Did you make the potato salad?”
“I did,” I called back. “Extra mustard, the way Daniel likes it.”
“You’re a saint!”
I glanced through the doorway. Daniel was on the couch with his two sisters, laughing at something Brooke had said. He reached for another beer without looking up. He hadn’t looked toward the kitchen once all afternoon.
Brooke walked past Richard’s armchair carrying a tray of drinks. On her way by, she rested her hand on the back of his chair. Without looking up, Richard lifted his hand and covered hers for just a second before reaching for his glass.
Neither of them reacted.
Neither did anyone else.
I barely noticed it myself. Families collect strange little habits over the years. I told myself that was just one more.
I went back to the lasagna pan.
Part Two: Sorry, Wrong Chat
That night, I lay in the dark listening to the house settle around me. Daniel was in the bathroom brushing his teeth, and his phone buzzed now and then on the counter. He came to bed, kissed my forehead like he’d done ten thousand times before, and was asleep within minutes.
Then my phone lit up on the nightstand.
Brooke.
It was 11:46 on a Tuesday night. Brooke never texted me unless she needed someone to bring folding chairs.
I opened the message.
The image loaded slowly, line by line. A hotel bathroom. Marble counter, bright mirror, white towels. Brooke stood in front of the glass with one hip cocked and her lips parted in that practiced half-smile she wore in every birthday photo she’d ever posted.
