it didn't hit ponyboy that his parents were dead until the first time he needed them. it took longer than he'd like to admit — he was never really close with either of his parents, usually choosing to confide in sodapop or, when it was something real important, darry.
it was a random afternoon in february. school had been one of those days — the kind that got under his skin and stayed there. a teacher had embarrassed him in front of the whole class, a soc had muttered something sharp under his breath during lunch, and he’d dropped his tray right in the middle of the cafeteria. none of it was huge. but all of it together had him brimming with frustration by the time he pushed through the front door.
he slammed it behind him harder than he meant to. “mom?” he called, dropping his bag at the door.
no answer. but he didn’t think anything of it.
“mom?” he called again, heading toward the kitchen. “i gotta talk to you. it’s kinda important.”
still nothing. but the quiet didn’t register. not really. he figured she was out — maybe at the store, maybe taking a walk. she used to do that sometimes when the house felt too cramped. he pictured her hands tucked into her coat pockets, her shoes crunching through old snow. he could wait. he didn’t mind waiting.
he flopped down onto his bed and cracked open a book, letting the words blur past as his mind thought over everything he wanted to say. she’d know what to do — she was always good at that kind of thing. calm and fair, the kind of person who didn’t take sides but always made him feel like she was on his team anyway. they didn’t talk about feelings much, but she listened when it mattered.
he thought about telling her that he felt out of place at school, that sometimes he felt like he wasn’t doing enough — not for darry, not for himself. he’d tell her that the world felt too big lately, and he was tired. not in a sleepy way, but in the kind of way that didn’t go away with rest.
when the front door creaked open again, he shot up so fast the book fell to the floor.
he sprinted out of his room, heart pounding with something that felt like hope. but it was just soda, dragging his boots off at the door, his gas station jacket unzipped and hair messy from the wind.
pony frowned. “oh. hey, soda.”
“gosh,” soda said, raising an eyebrow, “someone’s real excited to see me.”
he smiled as he flopped down onto the couch, but his eyes flicked toward pony in that way they did when he knew something was off. pony tried to play it cool.
“sorry. i’m just waitin’ for mom to get home. i need to talk to her about something.”
soda’s smile didn’t move, but it stopped being real. he blinked. looked down. nodded like he was agreeing to something, even though he didn’t say a word.
pony didn’t notice. he turned back toward his room, already thinking about how he’d start the conversation.
they didn’t bring it up again.
not until later — after the sun dipped down and the house started to cool, and pony sat curled up in the corner of the couch, half-watching whatever show soda had put on. the front door opened again, and darry stepped in, shaking snow off his jacket and stomping the cold out of his boots.
“hey, pony,” he said, brushing a hand over pony’s head as he passed. “how was school?”
pony shrugged. “kinda sucked. but it’s okay. i’m just waitin’ for mom to get home. i wanna ask her somethin’.”
and this time, there was no playing it off. no pretending they hadn’t heard.
soda looked up from where he was sprawled on the rug. darry froze halfway out of his coat. they looked at each other.
pony didn’t notice at first. he was busy picking at a loose thread on the couch cushion, still trying to find the words for everything he wanted to say.
“what?” he asked eventually, glancing up. “what’s with the looks?”
soda sat up. darry came over and crouched in front of him, one hand steady on pony’s knee like he was anchoring him to the room.
“hey,” darry said gently. “you remember... don’t you?”
pony blinked. “remember what?”
darry’s face was soft. too soft. careful. “mom’s not coming home, kiddo.”
pony opened his mouth, then closed it again.
“what’re you talkin’ about?” his voice cracked a little, high in the back of his throat. “she’s just... she’s just out.”
“no,” soda said, his voice thick. “she’s not, honey.”
the silence was a punch to the stomach. not loud. not violent. just slow and crushing.
pony’s eyes darted between them. he opened his mouth again, trying to argue, to explain, to fix whatever this was, but there was nothing to say. because it hit him, all at once.
the empty coat hooks. the quiet kitchen. the way no one ever talked about her anymore. the way soda had gone still earlier and hadn’t teased him for being dumb. the ache in his chest that suddenly made sense.
he wasn’t waiting for her.
he sucked in a breath, sharp and shaky, and curled in on himself. “i forgot,” he whispered. “i forgot she was gone.”
darry’s arms were around him in a second. not tight — just enough to let him lean without falling. soda moved up to the couch, sat beside him and pressed their knees together.
pony didn’t say anything for a while. just sat there, staring past darry’s shoulder at the wall, eyes glassy and far-off like he wasn’t really in the room anymore.
then, real slow, he blinked. and the tears spilled over.
he didn’t sob. didn’t wail or shake or anything like that. he sniffled once, then pressed the sleeve of his sweatshirt against his face like he could maybe hide it if he didn’t draw too much attention.
neither of them said a word about the crying. they didn’t need to.
soda leaned in closer and rested his arm along the back of the couch behind pony’s shoulders. darry’s hand stayed steady on his knee, thumb brushing back and forth like it was meant to remind him he was here, and he wasn’t going anywhere.
“we’ll get through it,” soda said softly, almost like a promise.
“yeah,” darry murmured. “we'll try.”
pony sniffed again and didn’t pull away.
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