Snow Falls, But You Never Came

Rod stood nearby, watching the scene unfold. The tension in his brow eased, and he let out a visible sigh of relief.

"Get some rest," he said to her. "You need to take care of yourself."

I walked past Rod without looking at him.

But I could feel it. His gaze never left my sister.

During dinner, my mom called out of nowhere.

"Your father and I are downstairs. Let us in."

Rod set down his chopsticks and glanced at me.

I was about to speak, but he'd already taken my sister by the arm and was heading for the door.

I froze for a second, then followed a few steps behind.

By the time I reached the entryway, the living room was already full.

Mom was holding my sister, her face caught between heartbreak and worry.

My sister was shaking, sobbing so hard her whole body trembled.

Rod stood right beside her, his eyes brimming with concern.

"Mom, Mom..."

My sister could barely get the words out between gasps.

"I was too ashamed to go home... I had nowhere else to go but here, to my little sister..."

Mom pulled her closer, murmuring comfort over and over.

It took a long time before my sister finally began to calm down.

She leaned against Mom's chest and started talking in broken fragments.

The divorce papers had been signed in a rush. She hadn't asked for anything.

Her ex-husband's family had turned on her overnight, refusing to let her take even her personal belongings.

The car and the apartment she'd put in his name before the wedding were gone. She couldn't recover a single cent.

Worse still, her ex-husband's friends had been spreading rumors behind her back, claiming she'd been the one who cheated.

A divorced woman. In their social circle, she couldn't show her face anywhere.

"Mom, I can't go back. I married him with so much fanfare, and now look at me. I... what do I even have left to live for..."

Mom held her tighter, stroking her hair, trying to soothe her.

My sister lifted her head, tears blurring her eyes, and looked at Dad. "Dad, you have to help me."

Dad's expression was grave. He was just about to speak.

"Let your sister stay here."

Rod's voice cut in.

I stared at him, unblinking.

He was talking to me, but he wasn't looking at me. His eyes were fixed on my sister.

He said it so naturally, like he'd already made up his mind long before this moment.

"The two of you can look after each other. Theresa won't be lonely."

He added, without missing a beat:

"And it'll help you get back on your feet faster."

My sister raised her tear-streaked face and looked past everyone in the room, straight at me.

Her eyes curved softly, and she gave me a small, grateful smile.

Mom nodded eagerly.

"Yes, yes, yes! With your sister here to keep you company, your father and I can rest easy!"

Dad agreed too, saying they'd figure out how to help her down the road.

Only then did Rod turn to face me.

He walked over and lowered his voice.

"Your sister's been through hell. We should take care of her. Go get the master bedroom ready."

I looked at him for a few seconds. Then I said okay.

He noticed something was off about my mood. He hesitated, seemed like he wanted to explain.

But my sister started crying again, and he turned on his heel, crossing the room to her side in three quick strides.

That night, my sister moved into the master bedroom.

It was the biggest room in our new home. I'd spent weeks tracking down a master craftsman to get every detail just right.

The best natural light. A dazzling view of the city at night.

Rod and I moved into the guest room.

I went to prepare the room myself.

Fresh sheets. A lit diffuser. The air conditioning adjusted to her preferred temperature. Every detail arranged the way she liked it.

When I came out, I ran into Rod in the hallway.

He was carrying a bowl of warm broth, steam still curling from the surface.

"Theresa, I'm going to check if your sister's asleep yet."

I paused for a moment, then managed a smile that didn't quite reach my eyes.

"She's probably still up."

He gave a faint nod.

Then he walked right past me without breaking stride.

The bowl of broth sat steady in his hands. Not a single drop spilled.

Rod was good to me too, in his own way. But something like personally bringing someone a late-night meal—