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.
“Mom says when families blend, you bring the ghosts of the old ones with you,” Ezra said. “So I think my mom’s ghost is probably sitting on the couch, and your dad’s ghost is in the garage. They’re probably just staring at each other.” lia's big stepfamily #2
And Lia herself? She had learned to navigate. To translate. When Sam slammed his door, she knew it wasn't about the step-siblings—it was about the last time their father promised to visit and didn't. When Carlos over-explained a rule, she saw the fear underneath: I don’t know how to be your father, but I’m terrified of failing. Every morning, the bathroom schedule was a negotiation
“Goodnight, ghosts,” she whispered.
“Ghosts?” she said, mouth full of foam. Don’t lean too hard
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.