A few weeks later, Caitlyn texted me something she’d heard through the grapevine: Clara and Michael were fighting constantly in the cramped apartment with my parents. Michael blamed Clara for exaggerating the danger. Clara blamed Michael for “not providing enough.” My parents were exhausted, bitter, still convinced that if I’d just “helped,” none of this would’ve happened.
Reading it, I felt something unexpected.
Nothing.
No satisfaction. No urge to jump in. No desperate itch to fix it.
Just distance.
Julian noticed me staring at my phone and asked what was wrong.
“Nothing,” I said, and meant it. “Just… updates from the old world.”
He nodded like he understood exactly what that meant.
That weekend, Julian suggested we throw a housewarming dinner. Not a big party—just a few close friends. He said, “Let’s fill this place with good memories on purpose.”
So we did.
We cooked too much food. People brought wine and dumb board games. Someone spilled salsa on our new rug and panicked, and Julian laughed and said, “Congratulations, it’s officially ours now.”
I watched our friends in the kitchen, heard the easy chatter, and felt something settle into place.
This is what family can be, I thought.