Bonded In Love

Chapter 1

"Hey, Mom, everything okay?" I ask, balancing my phone between my shoulder and ear as I stir dinner on the stove. "It’s past 8, and you’re still not home."

"That your mom?" Zev murmurs, casually munching on my lime-flavored chips from her perch on the kitchen counter. I nod, keeping my back to her.

"Yes, hun." "I won’t be home until tomorrow, so go ahead and eat without me," Mom says.

I stop stirring the veggie pesto pasta, frowning as I glance out the kitchen window at her parked car. "Mom, this is the third time this month you’ve just... disappeared." I turn off the stove and slide the pot to the side, letting the food cool.

"I’m happy you found someone, but don’t you think you’re acting a little..." I hesitate, not wanting to offend her.

"A little what?" she asks, her voice clipped.

"You know... a little immature?" I say gently, treading carefully.

"Nini—" Uh-oh. My pet name.

"Baby, I’ll be home tomorrow night, I promise!" "And I’ve got an exciting surprise that you’re going to love," she says, her tone laced with nervous enthusiasm.

"Oh yeah?" I reply, pulling off my apron—only to turn around and find Zev feeding my cat, Jingle, chips.

I pull the phone away. "Stop it," I say.

Zev shrugs. "What? It won’t kill her."

"This is why she doesn’t like you," she mutters. I shook my head as I walked toward the living room.

I returned to the call. "What's the surprise?" I asked, wary. I hate surprises. When they come from Mom, they usually mean bad news: a death in the family—like my father. Struggling with bills—a lost job. Or the dreaded game of where did I lose it? Except the answer is always the same: pawned off without telling me.

"Surprise!" she’d say with forced enthusiasm. Your bike—I’m so sorry we had to pawn it, but look!" "I went to the shelter and got you this adorable kitten!"

I think I cried for a month. The kitten was cute, though. A sort of consolation prize.

My dad’s passing wasn’t some planned twist—it was a sudden, tragic accident. One moment, he was standing beside me, his strong arm wrapped around my shoulders, smiling as we watched fireworks burst in the sky, my mom and the neighbors working to light them. The next, he was gone. My mother was inconsolable, the house filled with people dressed in black, the air thick with sorrow. I kept asking where he was, unable to grasp that he would never be with us again.

I was 13. After he died, it was just my mom and me, though our neighbors rallied around us. Financially, things got easier, but emotionally, my mom couldn’t pull herself out of bed. She stopped taking care of herself, and I was always there—waiting, even when she shut me out. Through everything, I was the one holding our tiny family together.

While my friends were having sleepovers, I was setting up a movie for my mom—something safe, no romance—and making a simple meal we could share. While others were going on dates, I was sitting on the bathroom floor with her, as she lost herself in memories of my dad, her soulmate, as she called him.

Instead of spending hours in my room scrolling through social media or gaming with my friends, I’d pull my mom out for a walk at our favorite park—the one with the broken swing, where skaters attempted tricks and frisbees sailed across the grass. We always ended up on our bench, watching people play small games of football. People-watching was her way of coping, of glimpsing happy families and pretending, just for a moment, that we were one of them.

"You need to live, Ni," Zev would tell me. "Your mom's grown, it's been three years. She seems like herself again. I’m tired of staring at a screen—let’s go out. I found this amazing bike trail—"

"I would love to, but it’s Friday. Our movie night."

Zev groaned, shutting her eyes in exasperation.

That conversation happened last year. Junior year came and went, and now I was heading into senior year in a month. Summer was winding down, and for the first time, I had nothing but time on my hands. My mom, barely home, had found someone. I met him at my graduation—tall, dark, impossibly handsome, with a gaze that made you forget what you were saying mid-sentence.

I understood why she was drawn to him. She was like her old self again—nervous, lovestruck, hopeful. And I was genuinely happy for her.

But after years of being the one to hold things together, of always being there for her, I suddenly realized—I had no idea how to be there for myself.

"Your mom’s not coming home tonight?" Zev asks as I grab plates for both of us and settle at the breakfast bar, propping my phone up with a movie playing.

"Nope." "Out again with her boyfriend," I say with a sigh.

"This feels so backward," she chuckles to herself.

I glance at her. "Yeah?" "How do you mean?" I ask, taking a bite while watching the tiny screen of my favorite anime.

"Like, she should be here stressing, and you should be out with your boyfriend."

I just shrug. She’s probably right.

"This is getting serious, Ni," she says quietly between bites.

I exhale. "Your new stepdad's probably gonna move in, bring kids that you will have to babysit… or your mom’s gonna say, ‘I’m pregnant’ and that you are about to be a big sister… or—"

"Or," I cut in, stabbing at my pasta.

"Or I’ll end up like you," I say to her, annoyed. "Like your mom, remarry some guy, and suddenly have a bunch of older, jock strap-heads-stepbrothers who love messing with you—always making you the target of their latest vlog prank." I gesture vaguely with my fork. "Which is basically why you’re here, right?"

That shuts her up. Now she’s too quiet, and guilt creeps in.

"Sorry, Zev… I didn’t mean—" I pause, searching for the right words. "You're always welcome."

I push some of my steamed tomatoes toward her as a peace offering.

"Just… whatever happens, don’t forget about us," she says, nudging a tomato around her plate.

"By us, do you mean you, Mira, and Ren?"

She nods, taking a bite.

"Never. You’re my family, you know that."

I stare down at my plate, absentmindedly moving my fork through my food.

"Stepfather?" I finally say, looking up. "There’s no way." "They’re just dating."

The thought settles in as I say it out loud.

"I mean, it’s just a summer romance… a fling… a hookup."

Zev doesn’t look convinced.

"I said the same thing," she mutters. "Then, suddenly—furniture, luggage, and five oversized athlete dumbasses later—my mom was married. And I was drowning in anxiety."

I looked at her, my stomach tightening.

Mom, married? Over the summer?

She would tell me… right?

I have a sinking feeling that this surprise is about to be bad news.