Every step up the stairs is a familiar dance—me steering, her leaning, both of us pretending this isn't a scene we've played out hundreds of times. I catch our reflection in the hallway mirror: her small frame against my shoulder, my hand steady at her back. We look like what we are—a son trying to hold his mother together, a mother trying to hold onto her pride.

In her room, I help her onto the bed, slipping off her shoes and tucking her in. She mumbles a slurred mess of regrets and apologies.

"Here, Mom," I offer, holding out a glass of water and some aspirin. "Drink this."

She takes a sip, her hand shaking. "Nate... I'm sorry," she slurs, her eyes wet with unshed tears. "I wish... I could've been better. Done better for you."

"Don't," I cut her off, my voice firm but tired. "Don't apologize. It's done."

"I'll do better," she promises again, a familiar refrain that doesn't sting as much as it used to.

Her hand reaches out, brushing the bruises on my face gently. "You're nothing like him." Her voice breaks, filled with a mix of pain and something like pride. "You always protect what you love. You're a good boy, Natey," she mumbles, already half-asleep. "Always taking care of everyone."

The words twist something in my chest. If she only knew how badly I've failed at that lately. But I still straighten her covers, making sure there's water within reach, check her phone is charging—all the little things Jake never had to learn because I made sure he didn't have to.

I pause in the doorway, watching her breathing even out. Tomorrow she'll be embarrassed and will try to make it up to me with pancakes or apologies. I'll brush it off like always, protect her from her own guilt the way I've been protecting her from everything else since Scott left.

It hits me then—I learned to swim carrying other people's weight. Maybe that's why I'm drowning now.

Dragging myself back to my room, a decision crystallizes in my mind. It's time to cut the bullshit, to really change. I don't want to be anything like him. Now or ever.

I head straight to the bathroom, my hands shaking as I reach for the last stash of weed and bag of pills I keep tucked away for emergencies. It's been my crutch—a pathetic escape I've clung to for far too long. With grim satisfaction, I dump it into the toilet. Watching it swirl away, I feel a part of me—the weakest part—get flushed down with it. The house falls silent as I crawl into bed, but it's a different kind of quiet now. It's not the oppressive silence that usually suffocates me.