Silent Half

Chapter Two: Sundays with Momom and Papop

Sunday mornings were sacred.

Not because of church or tradition or anything particularly holy, but because they were mine. A day carved out of time where the world quieted, and I didn’t have to wear a mask or shrink myself. I didn’t have to be the shadow of my sister, or the girl who lived in the servant quarters. I didn’t have to earn affection or stay small so others could shine.

On Sundays, I was simply Alina.

I opened my eyes to sunlight streaming across my quilt and the faint sound of birdsong outside. I’d left the window cracked overnight—something I never did on school nights. But Sundays? They were warm enough for hope.

I reached for my phone and found a message already waiting.

Papop: “The eggs are from our hens today. Don’t you dare be late.”

I smiled, fingers moving fast.

Me: “Wouldn’t dream of it. On my way soon. Love you.”

I pulled on a soft lavender dress that Momom once said brought out the color in my cheeks. It had tiny flowers stitched into the hem—something I’d done last summer during one of our long porch-sitting afternoons.

As I stepped out of my room, the estate was already stirring. Maids moved briskly through the hallways. I caught a glimpse of Amara on the second-floor balcony, her face glowing in the golden light as she laughed into her phone. Probably talking to one of her friends from school—the ones who only ever said “Oh, you have a twin? Weird. I’ve never seen her.”

No surprise. I didn’t exist in her world.

But today, I was going somewhere I did.

The ride to Momom and Papop’s house took twenty minutes. They lived on the outskirts of the estate, in a cozy old bungalow surrounded by fruit trees, vegetable plots, and rows of wildflowers Momom claimed grew better when you sang to them.

Their home was a small haven tucked into the folds of our otherwise cold and sprawling family legacy.

When I arrived, Papop was already on the porch, rocking gently in his chair with his straw hat tilted low.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite granddaughter,” he called as I climbed the steps.

“You say that to Amara too,” I teased.

“Don’t start rumors in my house,” he grinned, standing to give me a warm, two-armed hug. “You smell like bread. You eat yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Good. You can help Momom with the biscuits.”

Inside, the house smelled like lavender and lemon oil and warm butter. The windows were open, white curtains fluttering in the breeze. The wooden floors creaked with every step, each board worn smooth with time and love.

“Alina, baby girl!” Momom called from the kitchen. Her hair was pulled back in a scarf, sleeves rolled up, flour dusting her apron like snow. “Get in here and wash your hands. You’re not too old to help me in this kitchen.”

“I wouldn’t dare say otherwise,” I said, already tying on my apron.

We made breakfast together—biscuits from scratch, scrambled eggs from their hens, thick slices of ham Papop had smoked himself. Momom let me stir the gravy while she taste-tested everything with tiny hums of satisfaction.

“I saw Amara on TV yesterday,” she said casually, handing me the pepper shaker.

“Oh?” I didn’t look up.

“Some event your parents dragged her to. Fancy. She wore blue.”

“She looks good in blue,” I said.

“You look better.”

I smiled faintly. “Nobody notices.”

Momom stopped what she was doing and turned to me, eyes sharp and clear. “Then they’re all blind.”

We ate on the porch with the morning sun on our faces. Papop read the paper aloud in his low, grumbly voice, skipping the politics and reading only the headlines he thought would make us laugh.

After breakfast, I followed him into the garden where we weeded the carrots and harvested a few early tomatoes. He let me talk about school while he pretended to grumble about his knees.

“You’re still top of your class?” he asked, leaning on his spade.

“Second. Amara’s first.”

He gave me a look. “And how many hours does she spend with her nose in a book compared to you?”

I shrugged.

“You’ve got a strong mind, Lina. Don’t ever let being second make you think you’re any less. You hear me?”

“I hear you.”

But it was hard to believe. I lived in a house that counted worth by who got noticed, and I’d mastered the art of disappearing.

In the afternoon, Momom made iced tea, and we sat in the shade of the old maple tree at the back of the garden. She brought out her sewing basket, and I helped her mend a quilt while Papop snored gently in the rocker nearby.

“Do your brothers know you’re here?” she asked softly.

“I saw them yesterday.”

“All three?”

I nodded. “Elijah lectured me. Finn gave me a DNA kit. Jace tried to convince me to ride a motorcycle solo.”

Momom laughed. “Lord, they love you.”

“They don’t say it.”

“They don’t have to. Some kinds of love are quieter, but they’re just as fierce.”

I looked down at the fabric in my lap. “I’m scared sometimes. Like...this is all temporary. Like if I disappeared, nothing would really stop.”

Momom set down her needle and reached for my hand. “Listen to me, child. You are stitched into the heart of this family. Your brothers know it. We know it. One day, they’ll all realize just how much they needed you.”

I blinked fast, fighting the heat in my chest.

“But what if it’s too late by then?” I whispered.

She didn’t answer. Just held my hand and let me be quiet.

By the time the sun started slipping behind the trees, the smell of dinner—roast chicken, rosemary potatoes, green beans—filled the kitchen. Papop played music on the old record player, and I helped Momom set the table, just like I had every Sunday since I was old enough to carry a plate.

“You ever think about moving in here with us?” Papop asked halfway through dinner.

“I couldn’t. What would Mom and Dad say?”

“They wouldn’t notice,” he muttered.

I smiled sadly. “That’s probably true.”

“Seriously, though,” he said. “This place is yours as much as ours. When you’re ready.”

I didn’t know how to say thank you for something that meant so much. So I just nodded and kept eating.

After dinner, we sat on the porch again, listening to the cicadas begin their nightly chorus. I rested my head on Papop’s shoulder, while Momom hummed something soft and familiar.

“This is my favorite day,” I murmured.

“We know,” Momom said, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. “Ours too.”

We didn’t speak again for a long while. Just breathed and listened and existed in the calmness that only comes from being loved without question.

Back in my little room that night, I sat at my desk, notebook open, pen tapping against the page.

I wrote:

Sunday is where my heart goes to rest. Where love is not earned, but given freely. Where I am not Amara’s twin or a ghost in the hallways. I am just Alina. And that, for one whole day, is enough.

Then I turned out the light and curled beneath my quilt.

And in the silence, I whispered,

“I wish I could stay.”