One night, a storm knocked the power out. Seven people in the dark. No phones. No schedules. No wobbly table. Just breathing.
And she meant it.
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. lia's big stepfamily #2
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.
There were seven of them now: her mother Mira, her stepfather Carlos, his three children (Marco, Sofia, and little Ezra), and her own brother, Sam. Lia was the hyphen in an unfinished sentence. She moved through hallways where the paint still smelled fresh, but the cracks had already started showing. One night, a storm knocked the power out
The power came back at midnight. The lights blinked on, revealing everyone's faces—tired, streaked with marshmallow, oddly peaceful.
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. No schedules
Lia looked at the couch. Empty, of course. But for a moment, she could have sworn there was a dent in the cushion, as if someone had just stood up and left the room with a quiet smile.