When Charlie Comes Home

Chapter 1: Old Baseball

I hate it when my brother Charlie has to go away.

The house changes whenever he leaves. Mom stops locking the bedroom doors, Dad puts his shaving kit back in the bathroom, and the sharp knives return to the wooden block beside the stove.

They both sleep better too.

I can tell because the floorboards no longer creak late at night as they take turns checking the hallway. When Charlie is home, Dad patrols the house after midnight with his old baseball bat resting against his shoulder. Mom keeps her phone beneath her pillow and wakes at every sound.

Without Charlie, the house becomes quiet.

Safe, they call it.

I call it boring.

“You don’t understand how fortunate you are,” Mom told me one rainy afternoon.

She stood at the kitchen counter, sorting small white tablets into a plastic organizer marked with the days of the week. Monday through Sunday, morning and evening. She had started doing it herself after the last incident.

“I know,” I said, watching the rain crawl down the window.