Chum

The living room still smells like fresh paint and new carpet. I've been trying to mask it with scented candles, but there's only so much Yankee Candle can do against the persistent odor of reconstruction. It's been months since we moved back in, but sometimes I still expect to wake up in Moe's guest room, surrounded by boxes of our salvaged belongings.

Ben's shuffling around in the kitchen, probably rearranging the crackers on the plate for the fourth time. His need for symmetry used to drive me up the wall, but after everything we've been through, it's almost comforting. A little island of predictability in our chaotic lives.

I check my phone again. No messages from Sam. She's out with friends – or at least, that's what she told us. These days, I'm never quite sure if "hanging out with Tasha" means gossiping over frappuccinos or punching bad guys in dark alleys. I push the thought away. Tonight isn't about Sam, not directly. It's about us – the adults who are supposed to have all the answers and instead are drowning in questions.

The doorbell rings, and I hear Ben's quick footsteps. He always beats me to the door, a habit from when Sam was little and we were paranoid about strangers. Now, I almost wish it was that simple.

"Dad," Ben's voice carries from the entryway. "Come in. It's freezing out there."

I stand up, smoothing down my sweater. It's the nice one, the cashmere blend that I save for special occasions. As if dressing up will somehow make this evening less fraught.

Moe bustles in, all smiles and hugs. He's wearing the gaudy Hanukkah sweater I got him last year as a joke. On anyone else, it would look ridiculous. On Moe, it looks somehow dignified."Rachel, sweetheart," he says, enveloping me in a bear hug that smells of Old Spice and peppermint. "How are you holding up?"

It's a loaded question, and we both know it. I paste on a smile. "Oh, you know. One day at a time."

Ben hovers nearby, hands fluttering like nervous birds. "Can I take your coat, Dad? We've got snacks in the living room. And wine. Do you want wine? Or tea? I can make tea."

"Wine sounds great, son," Moe says, handing over his coat. "A little warmth for these old bones."

We settle into the living room, perching on furniture that still feels too new, too perfect. The coffee table is laden with a spread that would make my therapist proud – a perfect balance of healthy options and comfort food. Stress eating, with a side of guilt.

Moe takes a sip of wine and lets out an appreciative hum. "This is good stuff. You've been holding out on me, Benji."

Ben's cheeks flush slightly at the childhood nickname. "It was on sale," he mumbles.

I reach for a cracker, more for something to do with my hands than out of any real hunger. The room feels too small suddenly, despite the open floor plan we chose during the reconstruction. Too many elephants crowding in, waiting to be acknowledged.

"So," Moe says, breaking the awkward silence. "How's work treating you both? Still fighting the good fight in city planning, Ben?"

Ben nods, launching into a detailed explanation of his latest project. Something about green spaces and urban renewal. I try to listen, I really do, but my mind keeps drifting. To Sam. To the bruises I pretend not to see when she changes for bed.

"...and what about you, Rachel?" Moe's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. "Any exciting new additions to the library?"

I blink, realizing I've completely lost the thread of conversation. "Oh, um, yes. We just got a new collection of graphic novels. They're really popular with the kids."

Moe's eyes light up. "Graphic novels, huh? You know, back in my day, we just called them comic books. But I guess everything needs a fancy name now."

"They're not just for kids anymore," I find myself saying, warming to the topic. "There's some really complex storytelling happening in the medium. Art and literature coming together in fascinating ways."

"Oh, I know," Moe chuckles. "I may be old, but I keep up. Did you know they're doing a whole series now on real-life superheroes? Fascinating stuff. Really makes you think about the world we're living in."

And there it is. The elephant in the room, trumpeting loudly. I take a large gulp of wine, nearly choking on it.

Ben clears his throat. "Dad, we don't really... I mean, we shouldn't be talking about..."

"What?" Moe looks genuinely puzzled. "I'm not talking about Sam. I'm talking about literature. Art. The way society processes these huge changes through storytelling. It's important stuff."

I set my glass down harder than I mean to. "Is it, though? Is it really important when there are real people – real children – out there risking their lives? When our daughter comes home with bruises and nightmares and we're supposed to just... what? Pretend it's normal? Write a comic book about it?"

The words come out sharper than I intend, fueled by fear and frustration and too much wine on an empty stomach. Ben flinches, and I immediately feel guilty. This isn't his fault. It isn't anyone's fault, really. Except maybe the universe's sick sense of humor.

Moe leans forward, his expression serious. "Rachel, honey, I know you're scared. We all are. But Sam... she's doing something incredible. Something important."

"She's almost sixteen," I snap. "She should be worrying about prom dates and college applications, not... not whatever the hell she was dealing with at the zoo the other day."

Morris's head snaps a little bit. "The zoo? What happened at the zoo?"

I wave a hand dismissively. "Some villain spouting nonsense about evil dolphins or something. I don't know. Sam was pretty vague about the details."

"Evil dolphins?" Moe repeats, looking intrigued despite himself. "Now that's a new one."

"It's not funny," I say, even as a hysterical little giggle threatens to escape. "None of this is funny. Our daughter is out there fighting criminals and mad scientists, and we're sitting here eating crackers and talking about comic books."

Ben reaches out, his hand hovering uncertainly near mine before retreating. "We're not just sitting here, Rachel. We're... we're supporting her. In the ways we can."

"Are we?" I challenge. "Are we really supporting her, or are we enabling her? Letting her put herself in danger because we're too afraid to say no?"

Moe sighs heavily. "It's not that simple, and you know it. Sam's powers... they're a part of her now. We can't just pretend they don't exist."

"I'm not saying we should pretend," I argue. "I'm saying we should be protecting her. Setting boundaries. Being parents."

"We are being parents," Ben says quietly. "We're doing the best we can in an impossible situation."

I deflate a little at that. He's right, of course. We are doing our best. It just never feels like enough.

Moe reaches for another cracker, looking thoughtful. "You know, this reminds me of a story. Back when I was working on the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge..."

Ben and I exchange a look. Moe's stories are legendary – part wisdom, part rambling nostalgia, with a healthy dose of exaggeration thrown in. But right now, I'll take any distraction I can get.

"Go on, Dad," Ben encourages. "Tell us about the bridge."

Moe launches into his tale, painting a vivid picture of 1960s New York and the monumental task of connecting Brooklyn and Staten Island. As he talks, I feel some of the tension leave my shoulders. This is familiar territory – Moe spinning yarns, Ben listening with rapt attention, me half-listening while my mind wanders.

I get up to refill our wine glasses, letting the familiar cadence of Moe's voice wash over me. When I return, he's deep into an anecdote about a particularly stubborn rivet that just wouldn't cooperate.

"...and that's when Jimmy says to me, 'Moe, sometimes you gotta know when to push and when to let things settle on their own.' Wise words, especially coming from a man who'd just lost two fingers to a welding accident."

Ben winces at the mental image, but I find myself nodding. "So, what? You're saying we should just... let Sam figure things out on her own?"

Moe holds up his hands. "I'm not saying anything of the sort. I'm just telling a story about a bridge."

"Everything's a story about a bridge with you," I mutter, but there's no real heat behind it.

Ben clears his throat. "I think... I think what Dad's trying to say is that we need to find a balance. Between supporting Sam and protecting her."

"Exactly," Moe nods approvingly. "You can't control every rivet, every bolt. But you can make sure the foundation is solid."

I take a sip of wine, mulling this over. "And how exactly do we do that? Build a solid foundation when the ground keeps shifting under our feet?"

"We do what we've always done," Ben says softly. "We love her. We listen to her. We try to understand."

"Even when what she's doing terrifies us?" I challenge.

"Especially then," Moe says firmly. "Fear... fear can make us do stupid things. Make us push away the people we're trying to protect."

I think about Sam, about the distance that's been growing between us. The secrets and half-truths. The way she sometimes looks at me like I'm a stranger. "I don't want to lose her," I whisper.

Ben's hand finds mine, squeezing gently. "We won't," he says, with a certainty I wish I felt. "We're in this together. All of us."

Moe raises his glass. "To family," he says. "In all its messy, complicated glory."

We clink glasses, the sound ringing out in the too-new living room. For a moment, I let myself believe that it really is that simple. That love and wine and Moe's rambling stories can somehow shield us from the chaos of the world outside.

Then my phone buzzes, and reality comes crashing back in.

I reach for my phone, more out of habit than expectation. There's a message from Sam: "On my way home soon. Maggie's coming over, ok?"

I show the message to Ben, who nods absently. "That's fine. Maggie's always welcome."

Moe perks up. "Maggie? Is that the new friend Sam's been spending so much time with?"

"Yeah," I say, refilling my wine glass. "They've gotten pretty close lately."

Ben shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "Do you think... I mean, after what happened with Jamila..."

I raise an eyebrow. "You think Sam has a crush on Maggie?"

"Well, I... it's just..." Ben fumbles for words, his cheeks flushing.

Moe chuckles. "Ah, young love. Always complicated, no matter who it's with."

I take a larger sip of wine than I probably should. "I don't think it's like that with Maggie. They're just friends."

But even as I say it, I'm not entirely sure. There's something about the way Sam and Maggie interact, a closeness that goes beyond typical teenage friendship. It reminds me of the way Sam used to be with Jamila, before... well, before everything went sideways.

"Would it be so bad if it was?" Moe asks, his tone gentle. "Sam's a good kid. She deserves to be happy."

Ben nods emphatically. "Of course! We'd support her no matter what. I just... I worry, you know? After how things ended with Jamila..."

I feel a surge of protective anger. "That wasn't Sam's fault. Jamila made her choice."

The room falls silent for a moment, the weight of unspoken truths hanging heavy in the air. We all know there's more to the story of Sam and Jamila's breakup than teenage drama, but it's easier to pretend it's just normal high school stuff. Easier than confronting the reality of what our daughter's life has become.