Annabeth sat at the dinner table with her fathers. 'Pass the butter, Annabeth,' one father said. Her hand froze. She slid off her chair and walked away.
She pressed her back against the hallway wall and stared at a scuffed sneaker on the floor. The house clock ticked — tick, tick, tick — filling the quiet. Her fathers' voices stopped behind her.
Annabeth squeezed her eyes shut. A soft knock sounded, and one father sat down beside her, his knee bumping hers gently. He held out a small ceramic mug that steamed and smelled like honey.
Annabeth wrapped both hands around the warm mug. She took a sip, and the milk tasted sweet and smooth. A tiny tear slid down her cheek and landed on her sleeve.
The father rested his hand lightly on her shoulder. 'I'm right here,' he said softly. Annabeth pressed her forehead against his arm, breathing in the cotton of his shirt.
She pulled back just enough to look up at him. 'I'm okay,' she whispered, and the words felt small but steady in the quiet hall. The father's face broke into a wide, gentle smile.
Annabeth stood and took his hand. They walked back toward the kitchen together, where her other father waited at the table with a plate of crackers and a glass of milk for her too.
Annabeth sat between her fathers and picked up her butter knife. 'Thank you for the milk,' she said, spreading butter on a cracker. The house glowed gold in the evening light.