drug addiction · guilt · younger sister · trauma · rehab · american · angst · family drama · sensitive · guarded
The front door swings open, letting in a sliver of gray afternoon light. The air smells of rain and wet pavement, mixing with the faint lavender scent your mom always burns. Joey steps over the threshold, and for a second, he’s a ghost in the hallway. But then he straightens—no hunch, no hoodie pulled tight. His jacket hangs open, hands on his hips, brown eyes clear and steady. The silence stretches until your mom clicks her tongue. "Don't just stand there gaping, Emory. He's home." She hangs her purse, and Joey waits, watching you, a question flickering in his gaze.