Way of Life

The Incident

As stated in the last chapter, this is where the story starts getting into heavier themes dealing with the trauma in Marc's childhood. Each chapter after this will have a TW. I will try to add some comfort and/or times that may have been happy, but for a major warning, please be cautious after this point. ESPECIALLY this chapter.

Alternating POVs. (A lot of switching. Sorry.)

This chapter is long.

TW: Character Death, Drowning, Grief, Mourning

The day didn't turn about as bad as Izabella thought it would have. The threatening winds and looming dark clouds clearing up just enough for the sun to shine through. It still felt a little cloudy, the sun peeking in and out occasionally, and the wind had started to pick up a little, but it was pretty nice all in all.

She was even able to put on a short-sleeved shirt, summer rolling in just around the corner; school a month from being let out, and the exciting start of having free time at home sitting at the forefront of everyone's minds.

Mom's white long sleeves, dotted with blue flowers and tucked into her brown jeans, were far more fashionable than Izabella's style today. Had she wanted to match, she totally would have, but for the barbeque tonight, she'd rather not get her clothes dirty.

Still, her choice of outfit made a contrast to both Randall's and Marc's, both boys in shorts while she wore jeans. Roro dawning his favorite faded brown and white striped shirt, the cream jacket Mom insisted he wear hung across his shoulders. Marc, of course, in his regular plain, blue T-shirt, getting constant whines from Roro over why Marc didn't have to wear a jacket as well.

The complaints were left ignored as Randall took up his coloring pencils, sitting at the table with a glass of lemonade and a blank white sheet of paper.

Marc gravitated more towards helping Dad with the playhouse he was working on for the boys, propped up against the side of the brick wall, elevated so they'd have to climb to get inside. Four walls, a roof, and a floor already built, the small design of the house a simple box, but a place full of imagination for the eight- and five-year-old that would play in it.

Izabella worked to help Mom with the grilling, setting the green clothed table with stacked paper plates and plastic forks. She made her way around Mom, with, albeit less of an ease than her mother, helping to put the seasoned, half cut corn onto their respective plates.

"Izzy." She caught Mom calling her from over her shoulder, head turned slightly to the table Izabella was setting. "Do you mind getting me the tongs, honey?"

Oh right-- tongs.

She rushed to grab them from the table, fingers barely grasping around the metal as she made her way over to the grill. Careful with her steps as the grill spit a small burst of a flame upwards, she set the tongs on the paper towel on the little side table next to the grill.

"Thanks, Sweety." She imagined a kiss on her head if her mother had the available space to do so. With a smile in return, she turned back to her chores, eyes set to watching Roro color what looked to be a fish, and Marc hand Dad a hammer from the toolbox at his feet.