Ruby didn't follow Matthew. She stood alone in the narrow hallway, jaw tight, blinking just a little too fast. Pride kept her rooted. And guilt - though she'd never name it - held her there, shadowing the corners of her anger.
Across town, Ethan sat alone in his office. The lights of the city cast cold geometry across the windows, a fractured grid of ambition made flesh. He should have felt triumphant.
Instead, the silence mocked him.
On his shelf, a photo sat askew - a relic from a gentler past: Andee mid-laugh, her arms draped over his younger shoulders; Matthew steady behind them, holding baby Mary. It was always the same photo. Always that moment. He reached for it… and turned it face-down.
He leaned back, closed his eyes. Something cracked. Not loudly. But enough.
Back at home, Andee drifted through rooms like a shadow of herself. At dinners - when they still happened - conversations skirted around her. Matthew spoke only when prompted. Her mother gave polite nods instead of warmth. Ruby barely acknowledged her. The words not said hurt more than anything they might have flung aloud.
It was no longer rejection. It was colder than that. It was the suggestion that she had become unnecessary.
And Ethan - absent. As if even he knew her silence condemned him louder than any words.
Weeks passed in a haze of suspicion and subtle exile, until one evening, everything gave way.
Andee, alone in the study, tried to write. The books around her offered no comfort, their words strange and far away. Her vision blurred. Her limbs stiffened. The world tilted.
Then nothing.
When she woke, the ceiling was pale blue and beeping filled the silence.
Hospital.
Ruby was there, unreadable. Matthew, tense by the window. Mary hovered at the threshold, unsure whether to enter.
And Ethan?
Gone.
The room was full. But the distance had never been greater.
Even now, even in this bed with tubes trailing from her veins, Andee could feel the fault lines thrumming under her skin. Ruby's eyes refused to soften. Matthew's grief stayed behind his silence. Her mother looked at her with a fragility that felt like apology and suspicion in equal measure.
The stroke hadn't just broken her body. It had cracked what little remained of the family she had known.
And as she lay there, still, exhausted, rewinding every choice she never knew she'd made, one question sat in her chest like stone:
Was there a way back?
Or was this - the unraveling, the distance, the silence - the new shape of them all?