What I didn’t expect was silence. Not the usual soft hum of music from Rowan’s room or the beep of the microwave reheating something Jude forgot to eat earlier. Just silence; thick, strange, and unsettling.
They were both sitting on the couch, side by side. Still. Their bodies were tense, their shoulders square, and their hands were in their laps like they were preparing for a funeral.
“Jude? Rowan? What’s wrong?”
My voice sounded too loud in the quiet house.
I dropped my keys on the table and took a cautious step forward. “What’s going on? Did something happen at the program?
Are you—?”
“Mom, we need to talk,” Jude said, cutting me off with a voice I barely recognized as my own son’s. The way he said it made something twist deep in my stomach. Jude didn’t look up.
His arms were crossed tightly across his chest, his jaw locked in that way he gets when he’s angry but trying not to show it. Rowan sat beside him with his hands clenched together, his fingers tangled so tight I wondered if he even felt them anymore. I sank into the armchair across from them.
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