A childhood habit persisted—the boys never put the seat down. It served as a perpetual reminder of my otherness, a subtle indication that I wasn't entirely one of them. While some things remained constant, such as the water splatters from splash fights, new additions adorned the bathroom. Shaving had become a routine, leaving little chin hairs scattered around, and the counter was crowded with various deodorants, shaving creams, and colognes.
Their collection of cologne surpassed my humble perfume—a pink French bottle my dad gifted me for Christmas at thirteen. It emanated notes of vanilla, burnt sugar, and lemon, probably chosen by his grad student girlfriend. I refrained from leaving it mixed with their belongings, keeping it instead on my dresser. Truth be told, I rarely wore it, and i
