Chapter 14 The K Factor.

Chapter 14 The K Factor.

The day started normal enough.
Tessa arrived at the house ten minutes early, because that was what she did when she wanted to keep life from slipping. Derek opened the door and stepped aside without comment, expression neutral, posture controlled. The same quiet distance as yesterday, like they had both agreed without saying it that speaking less was safer.
Tessa walked in, set her bag down, and listened.
The house held that polished calm, the kind that made small sounds feel louder. The hum of the refrigerator. The faint tick of a clock somewhere. The soft thump of footsteps upstairs.
Emma came down a few minutes later, backpack already on, hair loosely tied, face blank in a way that made Tessa’s stomach tighten.
It was not the usual cautious look Emma wore.
It was… flatter.
Too compliant.
Emma walked into the kitchen without hesitation and sat at the counter, hands folded, eyes down.
No request for a specific cup.
No tiny complaint about socks.
No quiet test of whether Tessa meant what she said.
Just stillness.
Tessa’s body reacted before her mind could catch up.
Protective alertness. The kind she could not fake even if she wanted to.
“Hey,” Tessa said softly, keeping her tone normal so she would not spook her. “You hungry?”
Emma nodded once.
Tessa opened the cabinet and started making breakfast, moving deliberately, watching Emma out of the corner of her eye. Emma’s gaze stayed fixed on the countertop like she was afraid to look up.
Derek passed through the kitchen once, keys in hand, then paused.
He looked at Emma, then at Tessa, then away.
“She ready?” he asked, voice neutral.
“She is,” Tessa replied.
Emma did not speak.
When Derek left the room, Tessa felt the air change, subtle but real, like Emma had been holding something in while he was near.
Tessa thought of Mikayla’s warning, looping in her mind like a stubborn song.
Just do not let him become your problem.
Tessa’s gaze flicked to Emma.
The kid already is, she thought, and she hated how immediate it felt, how true it felt, how her chest tightened around it like a claim.
At school drop-off, Emma moved slowly but did not cling. She held Tessa’s hand longer than usual before letting go, then walked inside without looking back.
Tessa watched her disappear through the doors and felt the familiar tug in her chest, that small worry that never fully settled.
The afternoon came, and pickup was quiet too.
Emma climbed into the backseat and buckled herself without being asked. Derek drove. Tessa sat in the passenger seat. No one spoke until they were halfway home.
Emma’s voice came then, small and flat. “Can I sit with you after snack.”
Tessa turned slightly. “Of course.”
Emma nodded and stared out the window again.
Back at the house, Tessa moved through routine, snack, hands washed, shoes off, backpack set down. Emma followed each step with perfect obedience.
It should have made things easier.
It did not.
When they reached the living room, Emma sat beside Tessa on the couch and leaned her head against Tessa’s arm like she needed contact to stay upright.
Tessa’s throat tightened.
She kept her voice gentle. “Do you want to draw today or do homework first?”
Emma shrugged.
Tessa glanced at the clock. “We can draw for ten minutes, then homework.”
Emma nodded.
Tessa reached for the pencils and paper on the coffee table, setting them out like she had done a dozen times already. Emma picked a pencil and started making small circles on the page, tight and repetitive, not really drawing anything at all.
Tessa watched for a beat, then asked quietly, “You feel weird today.”
Emma’s pencil paused.
Tessa added, careful, “You do not have to answer if you do not want to.”
Emma’s shoulders lifted slightly, then dropped.
“I keep forgetting,” Emma said.
Tessa’s chest tightened. “Forgetting what?”
Emma’s pencil moved again, circles, circles, circles. “That she is gone.”
The words cracked the air.
Not dramatic.
Not announced.
Just spoken like Emma was describing the weather, like it was something that happened in her head and she did not know how to stop it.
Tessa’s hands went still in her lap.
She forced herself not to rush. Not to jump in with comfort that was too big, too fast, too adult.
She took a slow breath. “You forget, and then you remember again,” she said softly.
Emma nodded once, hard. “It is like my brain is mean.”
Tessa swallowed. “That sounds really hard.”
Emma’s voice stayed quiet. “Sometimes I think she is just on a trip. And then I remember the plane. And then my stomach hurts.”
Tessa felt the sting deep, sudden and sharp, and she hated how fast it made her eyes burn. She blinked slowly, pressing the feeling down into her ribs where it could not spill out.
“You did not do anything wrong,” Tessa said, voice steady. “Your brain is trying to protect you. Sometimes it gives you a break, and then it reminds you again.”
Emma’s pencil dug harder into the paper. “I get mad.”
Tessa nodded gently. “That makes sense.”
Emma’s head lifted slightly, surprise flickering in her eyes like she had expected to be told not to say that.
“I get mad and I do not know why,” Emma admitted.
“You miss her,” Tessa said. “And you did not get to choose any of this.”
Emma stared at her.
Tessa’s voice stayed calm. “It is normal to feel mad. And sad. And confused. And to feel all of it in one day.”
Emma’s eyes glistened.
For a second, she looked small in a way that made Tessa’s chest ache. “I do not want to forget her voice,” Emma whispered.
Tessa’s throat tightened so hard it hurt.
She reached slowly, careful, and placed her hand over Emma’s on the pencil. Not forcing. Just steady contact.
“You will not,” Tessa said softly. Then she corrected herself because promises were dangerous. “You might not remember every detail the same way forever. But you will remember her. And we can help you keep pieces safe.”
Emma blinked. “How.”
Tessa thought quickly, offering comfort the way she would want it.
Small control. Small choices. A routine that felt safe.
“We could make a memory box,” she said. “A real one. You can put things in it that remind you of her. A picture. Something small that belonged to her, if you have it. A letter you write to her. Drawings. Anything. And whenever you feel like your brain is being mean, you can open it and remember on purpose.”
Emma’s eyes widened. “A box.”
“Yes,” Tessa said. “And we can also do one small thing each day. Just one. Like saying one good thing you remember about her. Or one thing you loved.”
Emma’s mouth trembled. “I do not remember a lot.”
“That is okay,” Tessa said gently. “We start with what you have. It can be tiny.”
Emma’s pencil shook slightly.
A sound came from the hallway.
A floorboard creaking under weight.
A pause that did not belong to them.
Emma’s shoulders tensed immediately. Her eyes flicked toward the hallway like she expected to be in trouble for being sad.
Tessa’s chest tightened again.
The misinterpretation hit her in the gut.
Emma thought she had done something wrong.
Tessa realized, all at once, that this kid had been trained to swallow feelings when adults got uncomfortable.
The realization landed hard.
Tessa kept her voice even. “You are not in trouble,” she said softly, without looking away from Emma. “You are allowed to miss her.”
Emma’s eyes filled, but she did not cry. She swallowed it back with practiced control.
That was what broke Tessa inside, not the sadness, the restraint.
Tessa’s fingers tightened around Emma’s hand, gentle but firm. “If you feel like crying, you can,” she said quietly. “It does not scare me.”
Emma’s eyes flicked up to hers.
Then, just a small crack, a tear slid down her cheek.
Tessa did not wipe it away immediately. She let it exist. She sat with it.
From the hallway, the floorboard creaked again.
Tessa finally lifted her gaze.
Derek stood half in shadow near the archway, not fully in the room, not stepping in, but close enough to hear.
His expression was blank.
But his body was still in a way that was not controlled.
It was stunned.
Emma’s words hung in the air between them.
I do not want to forget her voice.
Derek did not interrupt.
He did not announce himself.
He did not retreat either.
Tessa sensed him before she saw him, and now that she did see him, she felt suddenly exposed, like she had been caught caring in a way that crossed the lines they had drawn.
Her mind jumped to the rules automatically.
No getting comfortable.
No personal questions.
No opinions.
This conversation had been personal even without names.
Tessa’s stomach tightened.
She assumed Derek would be angry she crossed a line.
He was not angry.
He looked wrecked, and he would not show it.
Emma sniffed, wiped her cheek quickly with the back of her hand like she was embarrassed by the tear, then returned to her paper as if drawing circles could put everything back into place.
Children moved on the way they always did.
Not healed.
But lighter for having been heard.
Tessa remained sitting with the weight of it.
Derek finally stepped into the room fully.
His face was controlled again, but the control looked strained, like a tightly tied knot.
He kept his eyes on Emma, not Tessa. “Homework,” he said, voice low. “It is almost time.”
Emma nodded, as if grateful for an excuse to shift back into routine. She slid off the couch and padded toward the kitchen table without another word.
Tessa watched her go, heart tight.
When Emma was out of the room, Derek spoke again.
“She does not talk about it much,” he said.
It was not a thank you.
It was not a command.
It was a line that pretended to be neutral, but carried everything he was not saying.
That he had been carrying it alone.
That he had been absorbing grief he did not know how to handle.
That he had been doing damage control with a child’s heartbreak, trying to keep the house quiet, trying to keep everyone stable, trying to keep himself from breaking.
Tessa swallowed.
She turned her head slowly to look at him.
Derek still did not meet her eyes. He stared at the table where Emma’s pencils lay scattered, like focusing on objects was safer than focusing on feelings.
Tessa kept her voice steady. “Kids talk when they feel safe,” she said.
Derek’s jaw tightened. “She is safe.”
Tessa nodded. “Yes.”
The silence stretched.
Derek’s throat bobbed once, like he swallowed something painful. “I do not know what to say when she says things like that.”
Tessa’s chest tightened again.
It was the closest he had come to admitting helplessness.
She chose her words carefully. “You do not have to fix it,” she said quietly. “You just have to hear it.”
Derek’s shoulders lifted slightly, then fell, like he had been holding his breath for weeks.
Tessa looked toward the kitchen, where Emma’s chair scraped softly as she climbed in.
Then back to Derek.
For the first time, she saw what sat beneath his arrogance and his distance.
Weight.
Grief shaped into control.
Fear shaped into rules.
Tessa realized Derek carried more than he showed, and it made it harder to keep him at a distance.