Not Old Enough For This

Chapter 1

The house didn't sound right without him.
It was too quiet, like it was holding its breath. The refrigerator hummed too loud, the clock clicked too sharp, and every sound felt wrong in a place that used to be filled with his voice—low, steady, always there even when he wasn't saying much.

I stood in the hallway with my backpack still on, shoes half-unlaced, staring at the dent in the wall near the kitchen. Dad had made it years ago, accidentally, when he tripped carrying groceries and laughed so hard Mom had scolded him while trying not to smile.

No one laughed anymore.
Mom sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug she hadn't touched. Her eyes were open, but she wasn't really looking at anything. Just staring through the space where he should've been.

I took off my shoes quietly. Everything I did now was quiet.

"Mom?" I said.

She flinched, like I'd yanked her back into her body.
"Oh. You're home." Her voice sounded thin, like it might snap if she pushed it too hard.

"Yeah. School let out early." I didn't tell her why. I didn't tell her the counselor had pulled me aside, or that kids had stared at me like I was made of glass. I didn't tell her I'd left my last class because I couldn't breathe.

She nodded, like the information didn't matter much.

I glanced toward the stairs. "Where's Ryan?"

Mom's mouth tightened. "Out."

Of course he was.
Ryan had been "out" a lot lately. Out late. Out angry. Out of control.
I dropped my backpack by the wall and went to the sink, rinsing my hands even though they weren't dirty. I needed something to do. If I stopped moving, I might feel everything at once—and I didn't think I'd survive that.

"He should be home soon," Mom added, but there was no confidence in it.

Ryan was seventeen and already taller than Dad had been. He had Dad's jaw, Dad's temper, and lately, none of his restraint. Ever since the accident, it was like he'd decided rules were optional. Detentions, warnings, rumors about things he'd done or almost done—none of it seemed to stick.

I picked up Dad's keys from the counter before I realized what I was doing.
They were still there.
My throat closed. I set them back down carefully, like they might break.
"I'll make dinner," I said quickly.

Mom looked at me, really looked this time. Her eyes filled, just a little.
"You don't have to."

"I know," I said. "But I can."

She nodded, relief slipping into her expression like she'd been waiting for permission to let go.
That was how it started.

Not with a conversation. Not with a decision. Just small things—dinner, laundry, reminding Mom to eat, checking Ryan's grades online because he never told the truth about school. I didn't mind at first. Someone had to hold things together.

I stirred a pot of pasta when the front door slammed.
Ryan's footsteps were heavy, angry. He didn't bother pretending not to be.

"Where were you?" Mom called, her voice shaky now.

"Out," he snapped, tossing his jacket onto the floor.

"That's not an answer."

He laughed—a sharp, humorless sound. "Neither is 'he's not coming back,' but here we are."
The room went still.
I turned off the stove.

"Ryan," I said, low and warning.
He looked at me then, really looked, like he'd forgotten I existed. His eyes were red—not crying red, but something worse. Tired. Burning.

"What?" he challenged. "You gonna ground me now? You the parent?"

Mom stood abruptly, chair scraping. "Don't talk to your brother like that."

"Brother?" Ryan scoffed. "He's fifteen. He shouldn't be playing house."
The words hit harder than he probably meant them to.

I swallowed. "I'm just trying to help."

"No one asked you to," he shot back.

Mom pressed a hand to her mouth, like she might shatter if she spoke again.
Ryan grabbed a bottle of soda from the fridge, twisted it open too hard, and stared at the floor. His shoulders were tense, like he was holding in something that wanted out.

"He wouldn't want this," Mom whispered.

Ryan's jaw clenched. "Don't."

"He wouldn't want you doing this to yourself," she said, braver now.

Ryan looked up, eyes flashing. "You don't get to say what he'd want."

Neither did I. But someone had to stop this from turning into something worse.
"Dinner's almost ready," I said softly.

Ryan laughed again, but it cracked this time. "See? You're already him."
The room felt too small.
He stormed past us and up the stairs, his door slamming hard enough to rattle the walls.

Mom sank back into her chair, finally crying.
I stood there, staring at the stairs, heart pounding.
Dad was gone.
Ryan was unraveling.
And somehow, without anyone saying it out loud, everything had shifted—like the weight of the house had slid onto my shoulders.
I was fifteen years old.
And I could already feel myself growing older by the minute.