Shadows By The Poolside

Echoes Of Eight Years Ago

Eight years earlier, the sky over Rosedale Heights glowed with the soft gold of early evening, the kind of light that made everything look gentler than it really was. Arielle remembered this day in fragments—sun-warmed sidewalks, the sound of boys arguing over a soccer ball, and the quiet hum of her mother’s voice drifting from the kitchen window. She didn’t know then how fragile that world was. She didn’t know it would shatter.

At twelve, she was all long limbs, bright eyes, and a kind of quiet confidence that drew people in without her trying. The boys—Noah, Bryson, and Maxwell—had already claimed her as part of their group years earlier. They’d grown up on the same street, rode the same rusty bicycles, shared snacks, secrets, and the occasional scraped knee. They were inseparable in the way children believe is permanent.

That afternoon, she sat cross-legged on the curb outside her house, sketchbook balanced on her thigh. She had been drawing the old oak tree across the street when she noticed Noah jogging toward her, panting, strands of dark hair sticking to his forehead.

“Ari!” he called, huffing. “You won’t believe what Bryson did.”

She raised a brow, shading the outline of a branch. “What trouble is it this time?”

“He tried to race Maxwell downhill again.” Noah plopped down beside her, still catching his breath. “But he used his dad’s skateboard. The expensive one.”

Arielle snorted. “Of course he did.”

“No, you don’t get it. He almost fell into Mrs. Horton’s rose bushes.” Noah’s eyes widened for dramatic effect. “Maxwell had to grab him.”

Arielle gasped playfully. “The sacred roses? The ones she talks to like they’re her children?”

“Exactly those.”

Before Arielle could laugh, two familiar figures turned the corner. Bryson strutted forward with the smugness of someone who believed rules were optional for him. Maxwell trailed beside him, calmer, hands tucked in his pockets.

“Look who survived,” Arielle teased.

Bryson grinned—wide, charming, completely unbothered by near-disaster. “It was under control.”

Maxwell shook his head. “You almost died.”

“Nah. I had instincts.” Bryson puffed his chest. “Right, Ari?”

She closed her sketchbook. “Your instincts were about to get you adopted by Mrs. Horton’s roses.”

Maxwell snorted, and Noah burst out laughing.

Bryson’s cheeks warmed slightly, but only for a moment. “Whatever. You’re all just jealous I’m the brave one.”

“Brave or stupid?” Noah countered.

“Both can be true,” Arielle added.

Bryson shot her a mock glare, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

Moments like this—simple and bright—were the foundation of their friendship. Three boys who loved her in different ways. One girl who never realized how profoundly she shaped each of them.

They spent the rest of the afternoon sprawled on her porch. Noah talked about a book he’d borrowed from his father, Bryson bragged about his latest daredevil ideas, and Maxwell… Maxwell mostly listened, eyes flicking to Arielle whenever she wasn’t looking. It wasn’t obvious yet—his quiet affection—but the earliest seeds were already there.

As the sun dipped lower, her mom stepped out with a tray of cold drinks.

“You kids better not be plotting trouble,” she said, smiling warmly.

“No plotting,” Noah promised.

“Speak for yourself,” Bryson muttered.

Arielle elbowed him. “Behave.”

Her mom’s smile softened as she looked at the four of them. “You all grow too fast. Stay children a little longer, hmm?”

Arielle would remember that sentence years later and ache at how impossible it became.

Life felt strangely quiet, as though life had paused and was waiting for something to go wrong. For a while, nothing did. Her father still came home every evening with that tired-but-gentle smile he always wore, the kind that made Arielle feel like everything was fine even when the world felt shaky. But slowly, bit by bit, small cracks began to show—so small at first that no one paid attention.

It started one Tuesday evening.

Arielle was doing her homework in the living room when her father walked through the front door. She didn’t look up at first—she was fighting with a math problem—but she noticed the difference immediately. Normally, he would call her name, ask about her day, or drop his worn leather briefcase on the sofa with a relieved sigh. Tonight, he lingered at the door, shoulders slumped, hand still gripping the doorknob.

She finally looked up.

“Dad? Are you okay?”

His smile was thin, forced, and didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m alright, sweetheart. Just… a long day at work.”

But even Arielle, at twelve, could see something was wrong. She watched him walk into the kitchen where her mother was preparing dinner. Their voices were low at first—too low to hear—but eventually they rose just enough for fragments to slip through.

“…gone wrong… entirely gone wrong…”

“…we’ll fix it… somehow…”

“…they want it back… all of it…”

Arielle froze. She didn’t understand everything, but she understood enough to know that something bad had happened.

That night, at dinner, her father barely ate. He pushed food around his plate and stared at nothing, blinking too slowly, as if his thoughts were miles away. Arielle wanted to ask again, but her mother gave her a tiny shake of the head—not now.

The next morning, things didn’t get better.

Her father left early, earlier than usual. Her mother said he had “important work matters” to settle. But Arielle noticed the dark circles under her mother’s eyes, the way she kept wringing the edge of her apron between her hands.

Within a week, signs of their new reality became impossible to miss.

The first thing to go was her father’s car.

Arielle came home from school one Thursday and found an empty space in the driveway. Her heart thudded painfully—he loved that car. He had spent weekends cleaning it, polishing the hood while humming old songs. When she asked why it was gone, her mother simply said:

“Your father is settling some debts, sweetheart. We’ll be okay.”

But the way she smiled—tight and trembling—told Arielle the truth was heavier than that.

Two weeks later, some of the living room furniture disappeared. At first, it was only a few decorative pieces: her mother’s favorite vase, the framed paintings, the antique clock. Her father said they were “reorganizing.” Arielle didn’t believe it, but she didn’t push.

Soon enough, the reorganization spread.

Her father began taking extra shifts wherever he could find them. Some nights he didn’t come home until after midnight, and even then, he looked like a ghost of himself—tired, hollow, thinner every day. Arielle started waking up in the night to the sound of her mother crying quietly in the hallway, whispering words Arielle couldn’t quite hear.

Then came the meals.

From three square meals… to two.

The first time her mother announced they were “cutting back,” Arielle didn’t think much of it. But when breakfast stopped happening altogether, replaced by hurried sips of tea or water, she understood the truth.

Money was gone. Completely gone.

Her father tried to hide it. He always insisted he had eaten earlier. But his shrinking frame said otherwise. He skipped meals for them, and even as a child, Arielle felt the weight of that sacrifice settle on her heart.

One evening, after a particularly long day at school, she came home to find boxes lined up near the doorway.

“What’s this?” she asked, panic creeping into her voice.

Her mother wiped her hands on her skirt and forced a calm smile. “Just a few things we’re selling. Nothing important.”

But it was important. Inside the boxes were books, childhood toys, family keepsakes. Things that mattered.

That night, Arielle overheard the truth.

Her parents were arguing softly in their bedroom. She wasn’t trying to listen, but the words slipped through the thin walls like needles.

“You used the house as collateral?! Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“I thought I could fix it in time—Carter and I trusted the investors. We all did. I didn’t think it would collapse like this…”

“And now the bank is taking EVERYTHING?!”

Her father’s voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”

Arielle covered her ears. She didn’t want to hear more. She didn’t want to know that the home she loved was slipping away from them.

Days passed, then weeks.

The suffering grew heavier.

Her father ran himself ragged trying to fix the financial disaster. He took night shifts, weekend shifts, odd jobs—anything that kept him working. He barely slept, barely ate, barely spoke. His cough grew worse too, starting as a dry irritation and turning into something deep, painful, and frightening.

One afternoon, during a particularly hot day, he collapsed in the living room.

Arielle screamed.

Her mother rushed to his side, shaking him, calling his name. Within minutes, they were in a taxi, racing to the hospital. The doctors said his exhaustion, stress, malnourishment, and untreated illness had caught up with him all at once.

He was admitted immediately.

For the next month, Arielle and her mother lived between the hospital and their nearly empty home. Her father tried to act strong when she visited, but every day he grew weaker. She would hold his hand, pretending not to notice how cold it felt, pretending not to see the fear in his eyes.

One week later, everything ended.

Arielle remembered every detail. The dim hospital room. The steady—but slowing—beeping of machines. Her mother’s quiet prayers. Her father whispering her name one last time before his chest rose and fell… and didn’t rise again.

Arielle didn’t scream. She didn’t cry—not immediately. She just stared, numb, frozen in a moment she wished she could erase. It wasn’t until her mother collapsed into sobs beside the bed that Arielle realized her world had changed forever.

The funeral came quickly. People from the town gathered, offering condolences, hugs, pointless reassurances. Arielle stood with her mother, holding her trembling hand, feeling the world blur around her.

The boys were present too. Noah wrapped his arm around her shoulders. Maxwell wiped her tears with trembling fingers. Bryson cried angrily, fists balled, punching walls outside because he didn’t know where to put the pain.

They mourned with her. They stayed with her.

Life didn’t go back to normal, but it moved. Slowly. Unevenly.

Her mother struggled. Arielle tried to be strong. The boys tried to make her smile again.