Jessa

The house was quiet when I got home — the kind of quiet that sat heavy in the air.

No TV, no music, no noise from Jackson’s room. Just silence.

When I walked into the kitchen, Jackson was sitting at the table, still in his practice clothes. His duffel bag was dumped by the door, a towel around his neck, his hair damp from a quick shower. He stared at a water bottle like it had personally offended him.

“You look like you lost,” I said gently, setting my backpack on the ...