Sunday morning at home smells like pancakes and regret, which is a combination I wouldn’t recommend but here we are anyway.

I’m sitting at the kitchen table watching Dad flip pancakes with the precision of someone who’s done this ten thousand times.

The spatula makes efficient movements, and I’m jealous of its certainty because I have the decision-making capabilities of a goldfish with amnesia.

“Victoria called,” Dad says, not looking at me. He slides a perfect golden pancake onto a plate with the kind of casual competence that makes me want to throw something. “She booked that opening spot for the spring semester. She wants to know if you’re interested.”

My stomach drops seventeen floors and lands near my ankles. I knew this conversation was coming, but eventually it was supposed to be later, like when I’d had time to process the last three days that felt like a slow-motion car crash.

“That’s… that’s too soon. I need time to decide.” The words come out strangled because apparently my vocal cords have decided to participate in this mess by staging their own dramatic performance.

Dad finally looks at me, spatula still in hand like some kind of domestic warrior ready to flip both pancakes and uncomfortable truths.

“Sometimes opportunities don’t wait, Maddie. They show up when they show up, and you either grab them or watch them walk away.”

He sets a plate of pancakes in front of me with the kind of gentle care that makes my chest hurt. “What do you actually want? Not what Emily wants, not what Coach wants. You. What do you want?”

I stare at the pancakes like they might spontaneously arrange themselves into helpful life advice. They don’t. “I want to stop feeling like I’m drowning everyone around me.”

“You’re not drowning anyone.” Dad sits down across from me, setting his spatula aside with finality. “But you’re sure as hell drowning yourself. You’ve been treading water for weeks, maybe months, trying to keep everyone else afloat while you go under.”

I shove a piece of pancake around my plate, building maple syrup moats that serve no purpose except giving me something to focus on that isn’t Dad’s concerned face.

“Emily’s suffering because of me. Coach said her performance is declining. The whole team’s watching us implode in real time.”

“Emily will be fine,” Dad says, his voice steady in a way that makes me want to believe him. “She was skating brilliantly before this relationship tension. She’s talented and driven. Maybe giving her space is the kindest thing you can do for both of you right now.”

The words hit like a physical blow even though they’re delivered gently. I set down my fork because suddenly eating feels impossible when your chest is collapsing inward like a building undergoing controlled demolition. “I love her. I love Emily.”

“I know you do.” Dad reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “But sometimes love isn’t enough when the situation is unhealthy. Sometimes the most loving thing is to step back and let you both breathe. Let you both figure out who you are separately.”

I pull my hand away and stand because sitting still feels impossible. The kitchen suddenly feels too small, too full of conversations I’m not ready to have. “I need some air.”

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify