The Next Morning — Ethan's 14th Birthday
The light pushed through the blinds, catching dust in the air like it was frozen mid-fall. I hadn't slept much. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard the echo of Mom crying behind her bedroom door. I heard the gunshots again. I saw Dad's face.
I rolled over and grabbed my phone off the nightstand.
April 17.
Ethan's birthday.
He was turning 14 today.
I sat up slowly, heart heavy in my chest. It didn't feel like a birthday. No balloons. No pancakes on the stove. No Dad humming off-key in the kitchen, pretending he wasn't off to hustle before noon.
The hallway outside my room was quiet. Ethan's door was cracked, and I could see the lump of him under the blankets, barely moving. I knocked softly and pushed the door open.
"E," I said gently.
No answer.
I stepped inside. "Hey… Happy Birthday."
He shifted under the blanket and peeked out with red, puffy eyes. His voice came out low and hoarse. "Doesn't feel like it."
I nodded, sitting on the edge of his bed. "Yeah. I know."
He pulled the blanket over his face again. "I don't want today."
"Not even a little?" I asked.
"No. I just want it to be over."
There was nothing I could say to fix that. And for a second, I wanted to agree with him. Because it felt wrong — trying to celebrate anything when we were still drowning in what we'd lost.
But then I looked at him again — my little brother, fourteen today, stuck in a house full of grief and silence. And I knew I couldn't let the day pass without at least trying.
"I know it hurts," I said. "And I'm not gonna pretend it doesn't. But today's still yours, E. And Dad… he would've made it a big deal, no matter what. You know he would."
Ethan didn't say anything, but I saw his hand twitch slightly — like part of him wanted to believe that.
I reached into my hoodie pocket and pulled out a folded note. "I found this yesterday. It was in one of Dad's old jackets in the closet. It's not much, but... he wrote your name on it."
Ethan sat up, slowly now, and took it from me with shaky hands. His eyes scanned the paper, and I saw his lips press together, trying not to cry.
"What does it say?" I asked gently.
He didn't answer. Just held it to his chest and looked away.
"I'm here, alright?" I told him. "No matter what. We're gonna get through this."
Finally, Ethan whispered, "Do you think he'd be proud of me?"
I blinked hard, my throat tightening. "He already was."
And for the first time since Dad died, Ethan nodded — just a little. Like maybe he believed it. 'Go on go say morning to mom'. 'Hey mom morning' 'oh Ethan how are you
"Happy birthday," she whispered.
"I don't want it," he mumbled, voice thick.
Michelle's hand paused for a moment, resting gently on his head. "I know," she said. "I know, baby."
She leaned down and kissed the top of his head. "I thought maybe we'd sit down, have a little breakfast. Nothing big. Just the three of us."
Ethan didn't answer. He just stared at the floor, hands in his lap. Isaiah glanced at him, then looked up at their mom.
"I'll help," Isaiah said quietly.
Mom nodded, grateful but tired. "Thanks, Zay."
She stood and gave Ethan's knee a light squeeze. "Come when you're ready, okay? I know today feels... wrong. But I still want to sit with you."
She left the room slowly, not waiting for a response. Ethan sat in silence for a long moment before finally speaking.
"She looks tired."
Isaiah nodded. "She is."
"You think she's gonna be okay?" he asked, voice shaky.
"I think she's trying," Isaiah said. "Like us."
Ethan rubbed his eyes again, then sighed and stood up, dragging his feet to the doorway.
"I'll come out," he said. "For Mom."
Isaiah didn't say anything — just followed him down the hall.
In the kitchen, Michelle had laid out three plates. Scrambled eggs, two slices of toast each, and a banana cut in half. It wasn't much, but it was made with care. A candle flickered in a plain pancake she must've thrown together last minute. She didn't sing. No one did.
Ethan sat quietly across from her. Michelle slid the plate in front of him, then reached across the table and held his hand.
"You're fourteen today," she said. Her voice trembled. "That matters."
He nodded, staring at the candle.
"Can I blow it out?" he asked.
Michelle smiled, her eyes welling up. "Of course."
He took a breath and blew it out in one soft puff. No wishes. Just the flame gone. Quiet.
But somehow, it still felt like something.
Isaiah looked at Mom and whispered, "He'd be here if he could."
Mom's hand closed around Ethan's and she nodded, the tears finally slipping down her cheek.
"I know," she said. "I know he would."
And for a few minutes, they just sat there — broken, but together. "A while after as we sat at the table and kind of celebrated Ethan's Birthday things started unfolding a bit awkward.
The dishes sat untouched for a while. No one had the heart to eat, but no one wanted to move either. The warmth of the pancake was fading, but the weight of the moment stayed hot in Isaiah's chest.
Eventually, Mom let go of Ethan's hand and stood, moving slowly to the sink. She started rinsing plates, not saying much, just letting the water run over her hands like she needed something to do, something to keep her from sinking.
Isaiah glanced at Ethan, who was still staring at his plate.
"Hey," he said gently, nudging his brother's arm. "You wanna do something today? We could go shoot around at the park for a bit. Or walk to the corner store, grab something sweet."
Ethan shrugged. "Maybe."
"We don't gotta make it a whole thing," Isaiah said. "Just... get some air."
Michelle turned from the sink, drying her hands on a towel. "You two should go," she said. "Get out of the house a little. I'll be okay here."
Isaiah hesitated. "You sure?"
She nodded, her face tired but kind. "Yeah. I think I just need some time... and maybe a nap."
Ethan stood up, slow and stiff. "Can I wear his jacket?" he asked, eyes on the hallway like he was asking permission from someone who wasn't there.
Michelle's lips parted, then closed again. She looked like she was trying not to cry.
"Yeah, baby," she said softly. "You can."
Ethan walked off, and Isaiah followed him a few minutes later. In their parents' room, the smell of Dad still lingered—faint cologne, old leather, something warm that made Isaiah's throat tighten. Ethan grabbed the black and gray windbreaker hanging from the back of the closet door and slipped it on. It swallowed his frame.
Isaiah watched him zip it halfway and shove his hands in the pockets like he was trying to disappear into it. He didn't say anything—just let him wear it.
They stepped out into the afternoon light. The sky was pale blue, and the breeze was cool on their faces. The world looked the same. That was the worst part sometimes. Like it didn't notice they were grieving.
They walked down the block, past familiar houses with cracked paint and old wind chimes, past a car with one flat tire that hadn't moved in weeks. People were out—neighbors talking, a kid on a scooter zooming past—but Isaiah felt like he was in a different dimension. Everything was moving forward, but he was stuck.
They stopped at the corner store, the bell above the door jingling like always. The guy behind the counter gave them a nod but didn't say anything else. Maybe he'd heard. Maybe he hadn't.
Ethan grabbed a pack of Sour Patch Kids and a blue Gatorade. Isaiah picked up a small pack of gum and a cheap lighter he didn't need—just something to hold.