Cracks in the Armor

The scent of roasted chicken, so familiar it felt like a memory woven into the very fabric of the old house, filled the kitchen. It was a smell that had always meant Sunday dinners, laughter echoing off the pine-paneled walls, and my parents’ quiet contentment. Now, it was just Ethan, Lily, and me, a fragile tableau against the backdrop of ghosts. Lily, her little face smeared with gravy, was happily shoveling peas into her mouth, her tiny hand reaching for another piece of chicken. She’d been surprisingly easy, considering the upheaval. Ethan had a way with her, a gentle patience that had surprised me, and, I had to admit, charmed me. He’d spent the afternoon building her a magnificent fort out of blankets and chairs in the living room, and she’d chattered about it for hours, her eyes shining.

“More chicken, please, Mr. Ethan?” she’d asked, her voice a sweet, high chirp.

Ethan had smiled, a genuine, unforced smile that reached his eyes, and obliged. “Of course, Lily-pad. Eat up, you’re a growing girl.”