𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧, 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐑𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐭

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍

The morning after Thanksgiving felt heavier than I expected. As I walked downstairs with all my bags in hand, each step echoed through the quiet halls of my father's estate. The weight of the day, of last night, of everything, seemed to settle on my shoulders with every step I took. My brother, Nathaniel, met me at the bottom of the stairs, his usual calm demeanor somehow more somber this morning.

"Let me get that for you," he offered, grabbing the heavier bags before I could protest.

"Thanks," I muttered, giving him a small smile of appreciation as he led the way to the car.

The air outside was crisp, and the cold stung my skin. It was the kind of morning that felt fresh, like it was trying to offer a new beginning, but it only made the knot in my chest tighter. Nathaniel and I loaded the bags into the trunk in silence, the unspoken words of last night hanging between us. I glanced at the house, waiting for the boys to wake up. I hated the idea of leaving without saying goodbye to them.

"Malu, ¿estás bien?" (Are you okay?) Nathaniel asked, leaning against the car, watching me carefully.

I forced a nod, though I knew he didn't believe me. Nathaniel always saw through me, always knew when I was barely holding it together. But he didn't push, didn't probe. He just gave me that knowing look, the one that said he'd be there if I needed to talk, but wouldn't make me.

"I'm going to make myself a cup of tea while I wait for the boys," I told him, more to fill the silence than anything.

"Alright. I'll check on Papi," he replied, giving me one last look before heading back inside.

I walked back into the kitchen, the familiar warmth wrapping around me as I entered. The house was quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos of last night. I busied myself making tea, trying to focus on the mundane task to keep my mind off the mess Thanksgiving dinner had been. It had started off well enough. We all gathered around the table, trying to make the best of what little time we had left with Dad. But things quickly went south when my mother decided to question Chris, about why he left. The entire night spiraled from there. My mother's words cut through Chris, dividing the room. Daniel, who had been nothing but supportive, got into it with Chris, and before I knew it, both men were at each other's throats.

The memory of it made me wince. I didn't want to relive it, didn't want to feel that sting of betrayal and anger all over again. But the more I tried to push it away, the more it clung to me.

As I poured the boiling water over my tea bag, I heard footsteps approaching. I didn't have to look to know who it was. The air seemed to shift whenever Daniel was around. Sure enough, when I finally glanced up, Daniel was standing in the doorway. His blue-gray eyes locked onto mine for a moment before I turned my attention back to my tea, pretending to be more focused on stirring the honey in.

"Morning," he said, his voice low but soft.

"Morning," I replied, my voice equally soft. The tension between us was palpable. I could feel him watching me, waiting for me to say more, but I had nothing to offer. Not yet, not after last night.

Daniel crossed the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. He lingered by the counter for a moment before walking over to where I sat at the table. He slid into the chair next to me, his presence an unavoidable force. I kept my eyes on my tea, stirring slowly, trying to find comfort in the rhythm.

A few moments later, one of my father's chefs walked in and handed Daniel a plate of French toast, blueberries and strawberries arranged on the side with syrup. He asked if I wanted anything, but I politely declined.