Erin calls me a few times over the coming days.

I don't hear a word from Emma and I let all of Erin’s calls go to voicemail.

I know she had nothing to do with Emma turning into a raging bitch, but she didn't stick up for me either. She watched while I was humiliated for Emma’s—and the rest of the school’s—entertainment. The only reason I’m not letting it eat me alive is that school is out for the summer. I won’t have to face anyone until September, and by then, I’m hoping I’ll be old news.

It’s another five days before Erin turns up at my door.

“I'm sorry, Fflur,” she says, holding out a small bouquet of coloured gerberas, their bright blooms in stark contrast to the white cotton of her summer dress. “I didn't know she was going to be like that,” she offers quietly, her fingers fussing with the ribbon tied around the flowers.

I look from her hands to her apprehensive and guilt filled face and know that Erin is so much like me—reserved, a little quirky, and generally happy in her own skin until someone rocks her shaky foundations. The only difference is, I would never stand back and allow someone to do what Emma did, but then I've learned that if you don't stick up for yourself, for your friends, and for those you love, there might be nobody else that will.

You support those you love.

You fight for them.

She awkwardly offers me the flowers and I take them with a whispered, “Thanks.” I know I'm going to let her off the hook. Erin might be like me, but she hasn’t found her inner strength yet, and who am I to punish her for that?

“I don't think I can forgive Emma,” I say honestly.

“I understand,” she replies, her eyes landing on everything except mine.

Silence hangs between us, and she hesitates, wondering if she should leave, but then with a tiny voice asks, “Do you think you could forgive me?”

Our eyes meet, and she holds my gaze for the first time.

“I already have.”

She smiles tremulously, and I invite her inside.

We don't talk about Emma. We talk about all the things that we usually would—books, movies, music, and our plans for the weeks ahead.

When she leaves a few hours later, a piece inside me that I didn't know I was missing clicks back into place—I still have a friend. And one good friend is better than twenty Emmas.

I spend that rest of that week with Dad, and, as is my usual routine, pack up and head to Mum's on the weekend.

This is my life now. I'm used to one week here, one week there. I’m not sure when it happened, but it feels like it's always been this way. Remembering the times when we all shared one house is like reminiscing about an old friend, long gone.

When I get to Mum's, Galen is in a foul mood. I don’t think I've ever seen him like this. It’s blatant in the way he can't even look at me, and he can hardly bear to be in the same room as Rhys or me, that his mood stems from our arrival. Worse than that, he doesn't even bother to try and hide it.

On the second day of being treated like I’m not wanted in this house, and after trying and failing to ignore Galen’s shitty behaviour towards me, I corner him in the TV room.

He's writing something in one of his music books, likely lyrics or a melody, while Rhys is playing some kind of war game on the console and intermittently yelling at the television every time he’s shot or killed.

I grab a stool and sit close to Galen, my eyes trained on his bowed head waiting for him to acknowledge me. But he doesn't.

“What's going on, Gal?”

He ignores me.

“Hey,” I say, placing my hand gently on his thigh to get his attention. “I’m talking to you.”

He stands so abruptly that I’m knocked off my stool and I land on my arse on the carpeted floor.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I yell in disbelief, pushing to my feet and staring at his handsome face that’s now warped with anger. “I only wanted to see if you were okay.”

His usually emerald green eyes are stormy and almost black when he says through gritted teeth, “He doesn't deserve to have to put up with you. He’s had enough bad luck. Do you know how much he's dealt with already having to stay away from her for years? Having to pretend she wasn't the love of his life, then finally being with her only to lose his baby, their baby. Then he gets you.” He stares at me, then Rhys, until he finally lets his furious gaze fall back to my face. “Two kids that hate him. He’s tried so many times to get you both to like him, yet still, you can barely stand him.”

Rhys dumps his game controller and jumps to his feet, uncaring that he’s died again, and comes to stand at my side. Galen just glares at him.

“Why?” he demands, his face twisted in despair. “He shouldn’t have to fight any more. So why?”

Galen looks from me to Rhys and back again, and through a jaw so tight his face has turned an angry red, he snarls, “I’m through. Done. Why don’t you both leave and go back to your dad, let us deal with all this shit. We don't want you here.”

Rhys steps forward and shoves both hands against Galen’s chest. “What the fuck?”

But Galen snaps his hands up, grabs both of Rhys’ wrists and pushes back. Rhys stumbles but doesn’t fall, and after one final glare, Galen storms from the room. We hear his bedroom door slam shut seconds later.

Rhys shakes his head and looks at me, mouth agape. “What the hell was all that about?”

“I don't know,” I whisper, and turn to go after Galen, but Rhys’ hand lands on my shoulder, holding me back.

“I don't know what's going on, but you need to let him calm down.”

I shake off his hold, give him a terse nod, and head towards my room. As I pass by, I stare at Galen’s closed door and hesitate for a second, but I don't go inside. Angry death metal blasts from his bedroom. It isn't the type of stuff Galen usually likes. It's like a flashing neon sign. The loud, thrashing guitars and guttural screams are a warning: “Leave me the fuck alone.”

With a painful ache in the centre of my chest, I head to my room.

Galen’s music continues to thrum through the house giving everything—the walls, the roof, the floor, even the air— its own angry heartbeat.

I sit at my desk and pull out one of my scrapbooks. It was one of the first ones I filled after Mum left, and as I look through each page, carefully tracing each pressed flower, I replay Galen’s harsh words.

He doesn't deserve it.

He lost his baby too.

Instead, he got you. You can’t stand him.

These are not lies, and although I think me and Rhys are okay with Max now, it's true that we never fully accepted him.

He was the man that shattered our family.

Despite maturing and fast approaching adulthood, it's a fact that still stings. Inside the depths of my heart, there’s still a crack that was cleaved that day.

Is it irreparable because of the length of their deception? No matter how much I try to understand, and how much I tell myself that Mum and Dad kept going with the charade of their marriage for us, it makes no difference. We were blindsided. We thought our family was solid, true and dependable. It wasn't.

When your foundations are rocked so irrevocably, it's not something you get over. Even years later, the aftershocks can still be felt.

It makes you second guess everything you knew about yourself and those you love. You question your very existence. If they’d never been together, we wouldn’t be here. We wouldn’t exist.

A knock on my door drags me out of my head and Rhys steps into my room. He looks at me and the scrapbook open on my desk before plopping down on my bed.

With the door cracked open, the screeching and pounding of Galen’s music gets louder.

I cringe inwardly at the harsh noise. I can't stay in here and listen to that. I can’t stay in my room and listen to the sounds of his pain and rage feeling impotent, useless and hurt. Emotions directed at Rhys. And me.

“Jesus Christ, is he on his period or something?”

Typical of Rhys. He’s so attuned to others. Not.

“Come on,” I say, standing from my seat.” Let’s go and raid the kitchen. Mum’s been baking. I can smell it.”

When we enter the kitchen, we’re both surprised to see Mum sat alone at the centre island, a burnt sponge cake still in the baking tin, gone cold on the counter behind her. She's staring out the patio doors, and her unseeing eyes are glazed over, her mind elsewhere.

I walk straight towards her, my gut plummeting, my question rushing past dry lips. “Mum, what's wrong?”

She blinks in acknowledgement but doesn't look at me. Her eyes staying fixed on something only she can see.

“I need to talk to the both of you.”

My heart clenches before bursting roughly against my ribs making it difficult to breathe. Something is very wrong.

Before she can open her mouth to say more, Galen barges into the kitchen. He looks frantically at the three of us and demands, “Where is he?”

“Your father is in bed. He needed some space.”

Mum finally turns to look at us all, her eyes first finding Galen’s, then mine, then Rhys’.

“Max wants me to talk to you both.” Her voice seems weak, and her words are heavy, lethargic and almost confused. She tells us to sit, but not one of us moves. We are all rigidly rooted in place.

She clears her throat quietly, looks back out the patio doors and says, “Max has prostate cancer.”

Cancer.

Max.

Galen.

Anger.

Hurt.

Rage.

“Cancer?” Rhys half repeats half questions.

And I watch in horror as Galen’s face twists in pain before he runs from the room. We hear his feet pounding on the stairs and seconds later that Godawful music restarts.

“Yes. The doctors want to operate as soon as possible.”

He's had enough bad luck.

“Will he be okay?” Rhys asks, his voice unsure, and a little lost. Nothing like Rhys at all.

“Yes,” she says, fire, anger and pain lacing that one word. Her head snapping back to look at us. “He's going to be fine. He will beat this, and we will all be there every step of the way to support him.”

She stares at me in silence for the longest time. Tears carve painful cracks down her cheeks, and I can barely breathe under the weight of her despair.

I don't think she's aware of Rhys at all as he strides towards her, and then takes her hands and pulls her to standing. Then, without forcing her to break eye contact with me, he cups the back of her head and brings it to rest against his chest.

Against his heart.

“I'm so sorry, Mum.” He whispers the soft yet fierce declaration into her hair. “I'm so sorry. He'll get better. Max won’t let this beat him.”

My feet finally move, and I instinctively slot myself into their embrace. Mum’s arm brackets my waist, and Rhys’ free hand wraps around my shoulder. We hold her tightly in the circle of our love as she vibrates with sobs of anguish.

I think of Max alone in his bedroom.

I think of Galen, lost and hurt in a room full of fury.

“I love you,” I whisper. “I'll do everything you need me to do.”

Mum holds onto us for the longest time before her sobs slowly abate.

“Everything?” she asks eventually.

We both answer in tandem, “Yes. Everything.”

She heaves in a shaky breath and exhales a soft, “Good. Because I could really use a cup of tea.”