Vanya deepins

You were brought home on New Year's Eve. Your mother was crying with emotion, and your father was awkwardly stroking your head.

Mom, “This is your sister now,” she said to Vanya, a tall seventeen-year-old boy who stood in the doorway of the living room, as if on his own threshold.

You were quiet, thin, with eyes frozen in a familiar wariness. Vanya nodded and muttered.

Vanya said hello and retreated into the shadows, behind the garland.

The parents threw themselves headlong into their role as saviors. The whole house spun around the new girl.

Parents: Do you want this room? What books do you like? Let's pick out some new clothes for you!

They decorated the Christmas tree to your timid comments, and adjusted the holiday menu to your, or so they thought, tastes. Mom's voice rang out, filled with a new, vibrant maternal care that Vanya hadn't heard from anyone in five years. Dad grumbled, but he looked at the girl with a gentleness he'd never seen his son have since his bad grade in physics.

Vanya watched. At first, there was bewilderment. Then, a dull resentment. He tried to intervene in their dance.

Vanya: Dad, help me with the garland on the roof. Mom, where are my blue socks?

The answers were scattered. Parents: "Later, son, you see, we're busy. Take any, we don't have time for that now."

He became quieter. Much quieter. His laughter, which usually filled the kitchen, died down.

handsome guy