“Goodnight, ghosts,” she whispered.
Lia rinsed. She looked at the mirror, then at the boy who had lost his mother to cancer two years before her mom met Carlos. He said it so simply. As if grief were just another roommate. lia's big stepfamily #2
Lia learned, in her second year of the great merging, that a stepfamily is not a house but a construction site. The first year had been about zoning permits—who sleeps where, whose toaster stays, which photographs get demoted to the basement. Now, in Year Two, the real architecture began. “Goodnight, ghosts,” she whispered
“Ghosts?” she said, mouth full of foam. whose toaster stays