“Ghosts?” she said, mouth full of foam.
That was the deep thing about stepfamilies, Lia realized. It wasn't just learning new names or remembering who liked crunchy peanut butter. It was learning to inhabit a space where loss and love shared the same closet. Her mother smiled more now, yes. But sometimes Mira would freeze, holding a mug that wasn't her old one, and Lia knew: She’s there, in the before-time.
Ezra started humming. Then Sofia joined. Then Marco, reluctantly, picked up his guitar in the dark and played something soft. Mira lit a candle. Carlos passed around a bag of marshmallows. Lia sat between Sam and Sofia, not touching, but not apart either. lia's big stepfamily #2
“Goodnight, ghosts,” she whispered.
Lia rinsed. She looked at the mirror, then at the boy who had lost his mother to cancer two years before her mom met Carlos. He said it so simply. As if grief were just another roommate. “Ghosts
That last one stopped Lia cold. She was brushing her teeth. Ezra stood in the doorway in dinosaur pajamas, earnest as a small philosopher.
And she meant it.
Every morning, the bathroom schedule was a negotiation treaty. Every dinner, the table had to expand—literally, Carlos had built a leaf extension that wobbled if you leaned on it wrong. The wobble became their family metaphor. Don’t lean too hard. Don’t trust the surface.