The house was quiet in that uneasy way that meant it could erupt at any moment.
But this morning, it wasn't Hale's voice or Sarah's shouting that filled the air, it was Jeromy's soft whimpers. Peter sat cross-legged on the worn living room carpet, his baby brother perched on his lap, sniffling between hiccups. The boy's small hands clutched Peter's shirt, his cheeks flushed and damp from tears. His little stomach let out a tiny growl, the sound so faint that if Peter hadn't been holding him close, he wouldn't have heard it.
"Yeah… I know," Peter murmured, brushing a lock of hair away from Jeromy's forehead. "You're hungry. So am I, buddy." Jeromy just blinked up at him, eyes wide and wet, lips trembling. He was two years old. Too young to understand the words, but old enough to feel the weight of the day pressing in on them. Peter sighed, leaning his head back against the wall. "You'd think having parents means you don't gotta worry about this stuff, huh? Guess not." He tried to smile, but it felt more like a twitch. "It's on me, Jer. Just me and you." Jeromy whimpered again, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.
"Alright, alright," Peter said, adjusting his grip and standing up. His stomach ached with emptiness, and his head felt light, but he ignored it. "We're gonna find something, okay? No promises it's gonna be a feast, but… something." He glanced toward the kitchen. The fridge was a humming metal box of disappointment, the inside holding nothing but a half-empty jar of mustard and a carton of milk that smelled wrong. The cupboards were no better, some instant noodles without seasoning packets, a dented can of beans, and a scattering of stale crackers that even the rats seemed to ignore. He shifted Jeromy to his other hip. "Looks like it's one of those days."
The streets were already alive with noise by the time Peter stepped outside. Cars honked lazily at each other. Vendors shouted over one another, calling out deals that only worked for people with cash in their pockets. The air smelled like gasoline, fried food, and something sour he couldn't quite place. Peter kept his head down, weaving through the sidewalks. Jeromy's small arms looped around his neck, his head resting on Peter's shoulder, eyes scanning everything like it was all new to him.
They passed the bakery first. The smell of fresh bread made Peter's stomach twist. He slowed just enough to glance inside. Rows of golden-brown loaves sat behind glass, each one looking like the answer to his prayers. But the woman behind the counter spotted him and narrowed her eyes immediately.
"Oi! You kids got money?" she barked. Peter shook his head. "Then keep walkin'." Her tone was sharp and final. "This isn't a charity, fuck you mean you dont have some money?" Peter swallowed the urge to say something back and kept moving.
Next was a fruit stand. Apples, bananas, and mangos piled high, the colors so bright they looked painted. He thought about asking if maybe they had something they couldn't sell—bruised fruit or scraps. But the man running the stand caught him staring and scowled.
"Don't touch unless you're buying."
Peter turned away. The heat from the sun made the back of his neck itch.
By the third block, he was starting to feel the hopelessness sink in. They'd walked past a convenience store, a coffee shop, even a cart selling fried dough. The moment he slowed down, someone would give him that look, the one that said you don't belong here. At a small café, a man in a pressed shirt was sipping coffee on the patio. Peter caught his eye and gave a tentative smile. The man's gaze swept over him, from the dirt on his shoes to the worn collar of his shirt, and then he turned away without a word.
"Guess we're invisible," Peter muttered to Jeromy. Jeromy made a soft humming sound, rubbing his face into Peter's neck. It wasn't until they reached a quieter street that things changed. A small house sat at the corner, its porch shaded by a big oak tree. An elderly white woman sat outside at a little table, eating breakfast. A plate of eggs, toast, and bacon sat in front of her, along with a steaming mug of tea. Her hair was pinned up neatly, and her pale blue cardigan looked soft enough to sink into. She noticed them immediately. two boys who looked like they'd been walking too long without a destination.
"Well now," she called, her voice carrying warmth that caught Peter off guard. "You boys lost or something?" Peter hesitated on the sidewalk. "No, ma'am. Just… walking." The woman tilted her head, studying them. Her gaze lingered on Jeromy, whose eyes had locked onto her plate like a magnet. "You eaten this morning?" she asked. Peter shifted uncomfortably. "We're fine."
"Mm-hm." She set down her fork. "You look fine like my old garden looked fine before it rained. Sit down, boy." Peter blinked, unsure if she was joking. She pulled out a chair from the small table and gestured. "Go on. I don't bite." Cautiously, Peter stepped onto the porch and lowered Jeromy into the chair beside him. The boy's eyes followed every movement the woman made, especially as she slid her plate toward them.
"Here. Split this," she said simply. "I've had enough." Peter opened his mouth to refuse, but Jeromy's little hand shot out toward the toast. Peter let him take it, watching his brother nibble like he hadn't eaten in days. Which Peter thought bitterly, wasn't far from the truth.
"Thank you, ma'am," Peter said quietly. The woman smiled. "Name's Mrs. Whitmore. Been on this street thirty-five years. Don't often get company this early, especially company this polite." Peter looked down at the table, unsure what to say. She sipped her tea. "Your folks around?" Peter froze with a piece of toast halfway to his mouth.
"Uh… yeah," he mumbled, forcing a smile. "They're… uh, they traveled. Just for a few days."
"Oh?" Mrs. Whitmore raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced but not pressing yet. "Where to?"
Peter hesitated, then blurted, "They went… um, to see my uncle. In… the next city."
"The next city, hmm?" she said, tapping her cup thoughtfully. "And they left you two all alone?" Peter swallowed the bread, forcing a laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "Not all alone. We have… uh, neighbors. They check on us." He avoided her gaze, hoping she'd drop it. But Mrs. Whitmore wasn't done. "Funny thing, though," she said softly. "If your folks cared enough to get neighbors to watch over you, why are you and your brother walking the streets looking for food?" Peter's chest tightened. "We were… we were just taking a walk," he lied quickly. "Jeromy likes walks. Don't you, Jer?" He ruffled his little brother's hair. Jeromy just stared at him, chewing slowly. "A walk that led you here, hungry and tired," Mrs. Whitmore said, her tone calm but eyes sharp. "You can tell me the truth....."
"Peter" Peter replied immediately
"Peter. You can tell me the truth dear I won't be angry." He shook his head quickly. "There's nothing to tell, ma'am. We're fine. Really." She leaned back in her chair, sighing. "You're a terrible liar, you know that? You've got good eyes too honest for lying. But I suppose…" She gave a faint smile. "…you're doing it for them. To protect them." Peter said nothing, staring down at his plate.
"I've lived a long time," Mrs. Whitmore continued, "long enough to know when a child's carrying a load too heavy for his shoulders. You can hide the bruises on your heart, but your eyes… your eyes give you away." Peter bit the inside of his cheek. "They're… they're my family. That's all that matters." Mrs. Whitmore nodded slowly. "Family." She let the word hang in the air before glancing at the wallpaper on the phone beside her. A smiling, younger version of herself standing next to a tall man with kind eyes. She reached for it gently.
"You see this man?" she asked. "That's my Richard. We met when I was about your age...well, a bit older and I knew from the first moment, he'd be the love of my life." Peter glanced at the picture. "You married him?" "Oh yes. Fifty years this spring," she said with a wistful smile. "We've had good days and bad days. Lord knows we've had fights, too. But love isn't about never falling, it's about standing back up together." She set the frame down and leaned toward him. "When Richard lost his job in our third year of marriage, we didn't have enough for rent. He wanted to leave, said I deserved better. But I told him, 'If we can't share an empty purse, we'll never share a full one.' So we stuck it out. Ate beans for weeks, shared one coat between us in the winter. But we made it." Peter listened quietly, his fingers playing with the edge of his plate. "You… you really love him...." she said brushing off jeromy's hair with her palm.
"I'd give my last breath for him," she said simply. "Because love means you see the worst of someone and still choose to stay. You fight for them, even when they can't fight for themselves."
Her words sank deep into Peter's chest, bringing a strange ache. He thought of his father's drunken rants, his mother's frantic searching for her stash. They were broken, flawed… but they were still his parents. And in his own way, maybe he loved them the way Mrs. Whitmore loved her husband, enough to endure anything. Mrs. Whitmore reached across the table and gently touched his hand.
"You are a strong young man, and you still got a lot of years ahead of you. Make good use of it and don't end up regretting certain decisions you make now" She gave a knowing nod, not pushing further. "Eat up, dear. You'll need your strength."
She studied him for a moment longer, then nodded to herself. "Well, you've got your brother here, and that's something. Hold onto that. You understand me?" Peter met her eyes for a brief moment. "Yes, ma'am." She smiled again, pushing the last piece of bacon toward him. "Eat. And if you ever need a little something to keep you going, you knock on my door. I'm not rich, but I know what it's like to be young and hungry." Peter swallowed the lump in his throat—nodding. They left Mrs. Whitmore's porch with Jeromy holding the last bite of toast like it was treasure. The city still looked just as unforgiving as before, but Peter's steps felt a little steadier. So
me people would chase you away without a second thought. But some… some would still see you.