original request: right after mrs abbot passes away, reader is a bit older like 18-20 mark. they would of just moved out of the house but now that their dad is alone for the first time in years, they move back in. “you look just like your mother.” i feel sad.
warnings: death, grief, lying to parents, implied death during childbirth
“Dad?”
Jack barely shifted, vision swimming as he tried to focus on you in the doorway. The light from the hallway framed you in a dull glow, soft and hesitant, like even it wasn’t sure it should intrude. You stood there in worn sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, your arms loosely folded, not defensive, just… steady.
“Yeah?” His voice came out rough, unused, like it had been sitting in his chest too long.
Jack hadn’t really left the bed in the last month. Not properly. Not in any way that counted. One month since his wife had passed. One month since the world had split clean down the middle, leaving everything before it unreachable and everything after it… hollow. The house didn’t feel like a house anymore. It felt like a place where something had been interrupted mid-sentence.
The holidays had come and gone like a blur he hadn’t agreed to be part of.
Thanksgiving had been perfect. That’s what made it worse.
The three of you had been packed around the table, plates too full, laughter overlapping itself. You had been glowing—talking a mile a minute about your third semester, your new apartment, your roommates, the way you said “my place” like it still surprised you. You’d gone on about your classes, your professors, the dumb jokes your friends made, and how you’d told all of them about your baby brother like he was already here.
“Early Christmas gift,” you’d said, grinning, nudging your mom’s arm. She’d rolled her eyes but smiled anyway, one hand resting absentmindedly on her stomach.
You talked about taking the summer off. About how he’d be five, maybe six months old by then and how you were going to take him to the park, show him everything, like the world was something you could introduce him to piece by piece. Your mom had laughed and said people would think he was yours.
You’d just shrugged, smiling like you didn’t mind.
Jack hadn’t known then that he’d replay that moment over and over, like if he looked at it enough, he might find a way to step back into it.
You were gone for two weeks after that. Finals. Late nights, stress, coffee, the usual rhythm of your life continuing forward.
And then the phone call.
Jack squeezed his eyes shut briefly, like the memory might soften if he didn’t look at it directly. It never did.
By the time Christmas came, it was just the two of you.
The house filled up in bursts. Robby had come, like always, letting himself in without knocking. The Pitt Crew rotated through with arms full of store-bought food, loud voices that tried a little too hard to sound normal. Frozen meals had been stacked in the freezer like some kind of quiet offering. They stayed for a while, sat around, told stories, avoided certain topics with an unspoken agreement, then trickled out again.
Every time the door closed, the silence came back heavier. Grief did strange things to time. It stretched and folded in on itself. Days blurred together until Jack couldn’t tell if it had been hours or weeks since he’d last gotten up. He’d wake up exhausted. He’d fall asleep exhausted. Somewhere in between, you’d appear.
Like now.
You’d started knocking. Not loudly, not urgently. Just enough.
“Time to eat,” you’d say, like it was routine. Like it was normal.
You never sat on the bed. Not once. You always stayed on the floor, back against the wall or knees pulled to your chest, deliberately leaving your mother’s side untouched. It was a small thing, but Jack noticed. He noticed everything you didn’t say.
You’d talk sometimes. Other times you’d just sit there in silence, watching him until he picked up the fork. He knew what you were doing. You weren’t just keeping him company.
You were making sure he stayed.
This past week, something in him had changed. Jack had started sitting up more. Letting his feet touch the floor. The ache in his chest was still there, constant and deep, but it wasn’t swallowing him whole every second. He pushed himself up now, slow and stiff, one hand bracing against the mattress. His head throbbed with the tears he’d cried earlier. By the time he was able to drag himself out of bed without the gentle insistence of you or Robby, the tears had run dry.
“What’re you thinkin’, kid?” he asked.
You lingered in the doorway for a second longer, like you were deciding something, then shrugged and turned toward the kitchen. “I’m in the mood for salmon.” There was a pause as you stepped into the hall, then you added, a little lighter, “I love your friends, but I don’t think I can do another frozen lasagna.”
Jack huffed out something that almost resembled a laugh. It caught in his throat, unfamiliar, but it was there.
“Yeah,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face. “Think we’ve got about six more of those.”
“Seven,” you called back. “Uncle Robby brought two.”
Jack looked around the room. It still felt wrong. It probably always would. He pushed himself to stand, unsteady at first, then steadier. He reached for his crutches
“Hey,” he called, voice carrying weakly down the hall.
“Yeah?” you answered.
“…We got lemon?”
“Yeah, Dad. We’ve got lemon.”
+ + +
“When did you learn how to cook?”
You glanced up from the pan, a small, almost mischievous smile tugging at your lips. “I’m an adult, Dad. I’ve been experimenting.”
Jack let out a quiet breath that almost turned into a laugh. It felt strange in his chest, like using a muscle he hadn’t touched in weeks. “Robby sent you a cookbook, didn’t h—”
“Yes.” You didn’t even let him finish, already reaching for a plate. “Are you finished?”
Jack blinked, looking down at his empty plate like it had surprised him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten that much, let alone that quickly. “…Yeah,” he said, slower this time.
You nodded, efficient, gathering his plate along with yours. You ran the water, letting the pan soak, the faint scent of lemon and butter still hanging in the air.
Jack stayed at the table for a moment longer, watching you move around the kitchen. Watching how natural it looked on you. When had that happened?
His eyes drifted to the calendar pinned to the wall. New years had come and gone already. The date sat there, every one before it crossed out.
“Hey,” he said, clearing his throat, his voice catching slightly. “When is your tuition due?”
You shrugged without turning around. “I don’t know. I haven’t gotten it in my email yet.”
“Just tell me when you do.”
“Okay.”
Jack leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking softly under him. He let his gaze unfocus, and like it had been doing so often lately, his mind drifted, wondering how you’d gotten to be so grown up.
He could still remember the day you got your scholarship. The way you’d tried to play it cool, like it wasn’t a big deal, but your hands had been shaking when you handed him the letter. He’d read it twice before looking up at you, and you’d just been standing there, waiting for his reaction. He’d never been prouder.
Twelve hours away. Too far, if anyone had asked him back then. But he never would’ve said no. Not to you. Not to a future you were carving for yourself.
And now, sitting there, all he could see wasn’t the college student you’d become, but the baby he’d brought home from the hospital.
Your car seat had been behind the driver’s seat. It had just made sense at the time. Easier for your mom to reach back if you cried when she sat in the front. Jack had once read that it was also the safest space, he driver’s side nearly always instinctively protected by the driver.
It had become your spot.
Car seat turned into a bigger one, then a booster, then eventually nothing, but you still sat there. Always there. Even when you were old enough to sit anywhere else, you stayed behind him. He could see you in the rearview mirror eventually, your face peeking up, eyes curious, always watching.
Sometimes you’d reach forward and poke the back of his neck when you got bored.
“Dad,” you’d say, drawn out, just to get his attention.
Jack hadn’t questioned it when you stayed home longer than expected. You were grieving. Of course you were. He saw it in the way you disappeared into your room, in the quiet that followed you, in how you moved through the house like you were trying not to disturb something fragile.
But then January ended.
And February came anyway.
“Hey,” Jack said one afternoon, stepping into the dining room. You were sitting at the table, phone in hand, thumb scrolling absently. A half-eaten bowl sat in front of you.
You looked up. “Hey.”
He hesitated, then pulled out the chair across from you. “I think we need to talk.”
You straightened slightly. Just a little. But he noticed. “About what?”
Jack rested his hands on the table, fingers lacing together. “Why aren’t you at school?”
Your expression didn’t change much, but something behind your eyes did. “I’m fine.”
“That’s not what I asked.” His voice stayed calm, but there was an edge now. “You’re not going to lose your spot, right?”
“No. It’s fine.”
Jack exhaled, jaw tightening. “You haven’t paid your bill either. I tried logging into the portal and I couldn’t get in.”
You stood before he could say anything else, picking up your bowl and turning toward the kitchen. “I said it’s okay.”
“What does that mean?” he asked, following you now.
You set the bowl in the sink, your back to him. “I took care of it.”
Jack’s chest tightened. “Took care of it how?”
You finally turned around.
“I transferred to stay home,” you said, like it was nothing. “It’s fine.”
For a second, he just stared at you.
“What?” The word came out sharper than he meant it to. “What about your scholarship? Your friends?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” You moved to step past him.
He caught your arm just enough to stop you. “Hey. No. Why?”
You pulled back slightly. “Dad, seriously. I don't want to talk about it.”
“Why?”
The word hung there, heavier this time. You looked at him, and for a second, he saw everything you’d been holding in.
“I don’t know if you noticed,” you said, your voice shaking despite your effort to steady it, “but Mom died.”
It hit like a blow. Jack flinched, the words cutting deeper than he expected, even though he knew them to be true. He shook his head. “You know she wouldn’t want you to have transferred. You had your eye on that program for years.”
“Please don’t.”
“I’m serious. Call them. Ask if you can get back in. I want to be there when you—”
“I’m worried about you!” you cried, the words breaking out of you all at once.
Jack froze.
“I won’t let you kill yourself by—” your voice cracked, frustration spilling over into something rawer, tears spilling freely.
“Hey,” he said quickly, softer now. “Where’d you get that idea?”
“You!” you shot back. “You didn’t talk for twelve hours. You didn’t eat for two days. Uncle Robby had to shake you out of a panic attack because you wouldn’t listen to me.” Your breathing hitched. “I left my scholarship because I care about you and I'd rather be here than be worried sick over there. Uncle Robby paid my tuition this semester so you don’t have to worry.”
“Honey. I’ll be fine. You should be living your li-”
“I’m not sorry for caring.”
Jack opened his mouth, then closed it again. Whatever he thought he was going to say didn’t matter anymore. His face crumpled before he could stop it. The sound that came out of him scared even him. He stepped forward and pulled you into him, arms wrapping tight, like if he held on hard enough, he could keep both of you from falling apart completely.
“I’m sorry,” he choked, the words muffled against your shoulder. “I’m so sorry…”
You stiffened for a second, then gave in, your hands gripping his shirt as everything you’d been holding back finally broke loose. The tears came fast, hot, unstoppable. For weeks, you’d been holding it together and all of a sudden you didn’t have to.
The two of you stood there, clinging to each other in the middle of the kitchen, grief pouring out in waves neither of you could control. After a while, Jack pulled back just enough to look at you. His hands stayed on your shoulders. His eyes searched your face, taking in every detail like he was afraid he might forget.
“You look…” his voice broke again. He shook his head, a wet, uneven breath escaping him. “You look and remind me so much of your mother,” he whispered.
His thumb brushed under your eye, wiping away a tear you hadn’t noticed fall.
“And she would’ve been so proud of you,” he added, quieter now.