Chapter Three
(Sky)
Growing up is expensive.
Nobody tells you that when you're young. They make it sound like time does the work for you. Like children just become adults on their own, neat and clean, without anyone bleeding in the process.
But I've learned better.
Growing up costs sleep.
It costs health.
It costs pride.
And sometimes, it costs love.
Evan hit a growth spurt the summer I turned twenty-nine. Shoes every three months. Pants that never fit right. Jackets he outgrew before winter ended. I worked three jobs that year and still cried in fitting rooms, staring at price tags like they were personal insults.
I learned how to make numbers stretch.
How to skip meals without feeling dizzy.
How to smile while my back screamed.
I learned how to lie to him gently.
"I'm not hungry, baby."
"I already ate at work."
"I'm just tired, that's all."
He never believed me. He just never called me out on it.
That's the thing about Evan. He sees more than he admits. Always has. Even when he was little, he'd watch me with those sharp eyes, like he was cataloging my weaknesses for later. I used to think it was intelligence.
Now I think it was survival.
This morning, he's at the kitchen table scrolling on his phone, backpack slung over one shoulder like he's already halfway gone. I place a plate in front of him anyway. Eggs. Toast. The good bread I bought on credit.
He barely looks at it.
"You don't have to do all this," he says.
I smile, because that's what I do. "I want to."
He sighs, irritated. "You're always doing too much."
I sit across from him, wrapping my hands around my coffee like it might hold me together. "That's my job."
He laughs once, short and humorless. "No, it's not."
I don't argue. I never do.
I watch him eat half the toast and leave the rest. Watch him stand without saying goodbye. Watch the door close behind him like it's relieved to be free.
When I get to work, my feet already hurt.
The diner is loud and bright and unforgiving. Grease pops. Orders pile up. My manager tells me I look tired. I tell her I'm fine. I say it so often it's starting to sound true.
Halfway through my shift, something sharp twists in my side. I lean against the counter until the room stops tilting. A customer complains. I apologize. Of course I do.
I think about Evan's shoulders this morning. How broad they've gotten. How he barely fits in this world we built anymore.
I think about how growing up made him colder.
And how I let it.
Because every time I chose work over rest, survival over softness, I taught him something I never meant to.
That love comes at a cost.
That needing is dangerous.
That strength looks like endurance.
By the time I get home, it's dark. The apartment is quiet. His shoes are gone. I sit on the edge of my bed and rub my hands together, trying to warm them.
I wonder if I hugged him too much when he was little.
Or not enough.
I wonder if I made him this way.
When he finally comes home, it's late. I hear the lock turn softly. I don't get up. I don't call his name. I don't want to scare him away with my voice.
He pauses outside my door anyway.
For a second, I think he might come in.
He doesn't.
I close my eyes and let the ache spread where it wants.
Growing up is expensive.
And somehow, the bill always finds me.