The first month in the house on Kenwood Avenue passed like a long, gray afternoon. Malcolm learned the rhythms without wanting to—the creak of the stairs that meant Richard was coming down, the sound of Susan's heels on the kitchen floor, the slam of Tyler's door when he didn't get what he wanted.
He learned to keep his sisters close. Maya slept in the bed beside him most nights now, waking with nightmares she couldn't explain, crying for a mother who wasn't coming. Tiana had started sleeping with her back to the wall, her eyes open in the dark, watching the door.
Malcolm watched everything.
---
December arrived with cold and decorations.
One morning, Malcolm came downstairs to find Susan standing on a stepladder in the living room, hanging garlands of pine and red ribbon along the mantle. Boxes of ornaments were open on the floor—glass balls, tinsel, a wooden nativity scene that Susan arranged on the coffee table with care.
Tyler was on the couch, watching television, his feet up on the ottoman. Chloe was helping, handing her mother ornaments from a box, her face bright.
Malcolm stood in the doorway, Tiana beside him, Maya in his arms. None of them moved.
Susan glanced over. "There's cocoa in the kitchen if you want some."
She said it the same way she said everything—neither warm nor cold. Just a statement. A fact. Like she'd noted their presence and fulfilled an obligation.
Malcolm didn't answer. He carried Maya to the kitchen, poured her a cup of cocoa that was too hot, blew on it until it steamed less. Tiana followed, her eyes on the living room, on the tree that wasn't up yet but would be soon.
"It looks nice," Tiana said. Her voice was small.
Malcolm looked at her. She was watching the garlands, the ribbons, the way the light caught the glass ornaments. He saw something in her face—a wanting, a reaching for something that wasn't there.
"It ain't our house," he said.
Tiana looked at him. Her face did something complicated, then smoothed out. "I know."
She took her cocoa and went to the table, sitting with her back to the living room. Malcolm watched her for a moment, then turned back to Maya, who was drinking her cocoa with both hands, her eyes fixed on the steam rising from the cup.
---
The tree went up the next weekend.
It was a real tree, tall and full, tied to the roof of Richard's car and carried through the front door with Tyler pretending to help and Chloe directing. Susan arranged the lights strand by strand, her movements precise, her face focused. The ornaments went on next—each one unwrapped, hung at a specific height, spaced just so.
Malcolm watched from the stairs. He'd taken Maya up there after breakfast, telling Tiana to stay in their room, to keep the door closed. He didn't want them in the middle of whatever this was. This performance of a family decorating a tree, pretending they were something they weren't.
"Malcolm." Susan's voice came from the living room. "You want to help?"
He didn't move. "I'm good."
A pause. Then the sound of her footsteps, and she appeared at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at him. Her face was neutral, but her eyes held something—not warmth, not cold, just… watching.
"The girls might enjoy it," she said. "Tiana could put some ornaments on the lower branches."
Malcolm's jaw tightened. He didn't want Tiana down there. He didn't want her anywhere near Susan's careful, measured attention. But he also didn't have a reason to say no.
"Tiana," he called, his voice louder than he meant it to be. "You wanna come do the tree?"
Tiana appeared in the doorway of their room, her face uncertain. She looked at Malcolm, then at Susan, then back at Malcolm.
"It's okay," he said, and he made his voice soft, softer than he felt. "Go on."
Tiana came down the stairs slowly. Susan smiled—a small, tight thing—and put her hand on Tiana's shoulder, guiding her toward the box of ornaments.
"You can put these on the bottom," Susan said. "The ones that won't break."
Malcolm watched from the stairs. He watched Susan hand Tiana a plastic snowman, watched Tiana hang it on a branch near the floor, watched her face lighten just a little when Chloe came over and said it looked good.
He stayed on the stairs. He didn't move. He held Maya against his chest and watched, and the lights on the tree blinked in colors—red, green, blue—and the house filled with the smell of pine and something else, something that made his chest tight.
You don't belong here, he thought. None of us do.
---
The bullying started quiet, then got loud.
Tyler had been watching Malcolm since they arrived, his eyes following him through rooms, across hallways, down to the kitchen. He'd made comments at dinner, small digs that Malcolm let slide off him like water.
But the holidays meant Tyler was home all day. No school to break up the hours. No escape.
It started in the hallway outside their room. Malcolm was coming out of the bathroom, Maya's bottle in his hand, when Tyler appeared at the end of the hall, blocking the way.
"What you got there?" Tyler asked, nodding at the bottle. "You the mom now?"
Malcolm didn't answer. He walked toward Tyler, not slowing, not speeding up, his eyes fixed on the door to their room.
"I'm talkin' to you," Tyler said. He didn't move.
"Move."
Tyler's face flickered. "This my house. You don't tell me to move."
Malcolm stopped a few feet away. He looked at Tyler—the way his hands were shoved in his pockets, the way his weight was shifted like he was ready to push. Malcolm was smaller. He knew that. But he'd learned something in the months since his mother died: there were worse things than being hit.
"Maya needs her bottle," Malcolm said. "Move."
Tyler stared at him. For a moment, something passed between them—something that wasn't words, wasn't even anger. It was a measuring. A calculation.
Then Tyler stepped aside. But as Malcolm passed, Tyler's voice came low, meant only for him: "You ain't gonna last here."
Malcolm didn't respond. He opened the door to their room, closed it behind him, and stood with his back against it, his heart beating too fast, his hands steady on the bottle.
---
The first physical hit came three days before Christmas.
Malcolm was in the kitchen, making a sandwich for Tiana, when Tyler came in. He'd been quiet all morning, which should have been a warning, but Malcolm was tired, his mind on Maya's cough, on the way Tiana had been staring out the window all morning like she was looking for something that wasn't there.
"Your sister's crying," Tyler said.
Malcolm's head snapped up. "Where?"
"In the yard. She fell off the swing."
Malcolm dropped the knife and ran. He didn't think. He went through the back door, across the patio, toward the swing set, his chest already tight with fear—
The yard was empty.
He stopped. The swings hung still. The grass was bare. No Tiana. No crying.
He turned.
Tyler was in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his arms crossed. He was smiling.
"Damn," Tyler said. "You really believed me."
Malcolm stood in the cold, his breath coming fast, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He didn't move. He didn't speak. He just stood there, the December wind cutting through his thin shirt, and he looked at Tyler with a face that showed nothing.
"You ain't anythin'," Tyler said, the smile fading when Malcolm didn't react. "You hear me? You ain't anythin' here. You and your ugly sisters—"
Malcolm moved before he knew he was moving. He took three steps toward the house, and Tyler's face shifted—surprise, then something meaner—and then Tyler shoved him. Hard. Malcolm's feet went out from under him on the wet grass, and he hit the ground on his back, the air knocked out of him, the sky a cold gray above.
Tyler stood over him. "You try that again, I'll do worse."
He raised his foot like he was going to step on Malcolm's chest—
"Tyler!"
Chloe was in the doorway, her face red, her voice sharp. She ran down the steps, past Tyler, and stood in front of Malcolm, her arms out.
"Get away from him," she said.
Tyler's face twisted. "Mind your business."
"He's my business. They're my business." Chloe didn't move. "I'll tell Mom."
Tyler laughed, but there was something in it that wasn't real. "You tell Mom anything, I'll—"
"You'll what?" Chloe's voice was steady. "You'll hit me too? Go ahead. See what happens."
They stood there, brother and sister, the cold air between them. Malcolm stayed on the ground, his back wet, his lungs burning. He watched Tyler's face change—the anger, the calculation, the slow retreat.
"Whatever," Tyler said. He turned and walked back into the house, slamming the door behind him.
Chloe knelt down. "You okay?"
Malcolm nodded. He sat up, his ribs aching, his hands scraped from the fall. He didn't look at Chloe. He looked at the house, at the window where he could see Tyler's silhouette moving away.
"He ain't gonna stop," Malcolm said.
Chloe was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "I know."
She helped him up, and he let her, because his legs were shaking and he didn't want Tiana to see him fall again.
---
Christmas morning came bright and cold.
The tree was lit, the presents wrapped and arranged beneath it, the house smelling of cinnamon and coffee. Malcolm came downstairs with Maya on his hip, Tiana behind him, and they stood in the doorway of the living room, watching.
Richard was in his chair, a cup of coffee in his hand, watching Tyler tear open a box. Susan was on the couch, handing Chloe a gift wrapped in silver paper. The television was playing Christmas music low, the fire was lit, the whole room looked like something from a catalog.
No one looked at them.
Malcolm stood in the doorway, Maya's weight warm against him, and he felt something close in his chest. Not anger. Not sadness. Something older. Something that had been there since the night his mother didn't come home.
"Come on," he said to Tiana, his voice low. "Let's go back upstairs."
"But—" Tiana was looking at the presents, at the tree, at the fire.
"We ain't part of this." He turned and went back up the stairs, and after a moment, he heard Tiana's footsteps behind him.
They sat on the floor of their room, the door closed. Malcolm put Maya between them, gave her a stuffed rabbit she'd had since the apartment on North Avenue, something Brenda had saved from their old things.
"We got each other," he said. "That's enough."
Tiana didn't answer. She was looking at the door, at the light coming through the crack at the bottom, at the sounds of laughter from downstairs.
"That's enough," Malcolm said again, and this time he was trying to believe it.
---
The family dinner was on New Year's Eve.
Susan had been cooking all day—a ham, macaroni and cheese, greens, cornbread, pies. The table was set with the good dishes, the ones from the china cabinet, and Richard had put on a button‑down shirt, the first time Malcolm had seen him out of jeans since they arrived.
Malcolm sat at the end of the table with Tiana beside him, Maya in a high chair that Susan had pulled up. Tyler was across from them, his eyes moving between Malcolm and Tiana like he was waiting for something. Chloe sat next to her mother, quiet, her hands in her lap.
Richard carved the ham, his movements efficient, his face blank. He passed plates without looking at Malcolm's end of the table. He filled Susan's glass, then his own, then Tyler's. He didn't ask Malcolm if he wanted anything.
"Pass the cornbread," Tyler said, looking at Tiana.
She reached for the basket, her hands shaking a little, and Malcolm's hand shot out and took it first. He passed it to Tyler without looking at him.
Tyler's eyes narrowed, but he didn't say anything.
Susan talked about the neighbors, about a party they'd been invited to, about plans for the new year. Chloe nodded along. Richard grunted responses. Tyler ate with his mouth open, watching Malcolm.
Malcolm ate without tasting. He kept one hand on Maya's chair, ready to catch anything she dropped, ready to lift her out if she started crying. He didn't join the conversation. He didn't look at Richard. He kept his eyes on his plate and his mind on the door, on the stairs, on the room where he and his sisters would go when this was over.
After dinner, Chloe came up to him in the hallway. Her face was serious, her hands behind her back.
"I'm sorry," she said. "About Tyler. About… everything."
Malcolm looked at her. She was younger than him, smaller, her freckled face open in a way that reminded him of someone. He didn't know who.
"It ain't your fault," he said.
She nodded, but she didn't look convinced. "You want to come watch the fireworks later? We can see them from the backyard."
Malcolm shook his head. "We're gonna stay upstairs."
Chloe's face fell, but she didn't push. "Okay. Well… happy New Year."
She went back to the living room, where her parents were sitting on the couch, watching television. Malcolm stood in the hallway and watched them—Richard with his arm around Susan, Susan's head on his shoulder, Tyler sprawled on the floor, Chloe curling up in the armchair.
A family. A real one.
He turned and went upstairs.
---
That night, Malcolm sat on the floor of their room, his back against the bed, his sisters asleep beside him. Maya was curled against his leg, her thumb in her mouth. Tiana was on the other bed, her face slack, her breathing even.
He should have been tired. He was tired. But his mind wouldn't stop.
He thought about Tyler's face when he shoved him. About the way Chloe had stood between them, her arms out, her voice steady. About Susan's hands on Tiana's shoulder, guiding her toward the tree.
Why her? he thought. Why does she want Tiana close?
He didn't have an answer. But the question sat in his chest, heavy and cold, and he turned it over and over like a stone in his palm.
He thought about Richard, about the way he'd passed the cornbread without looking at them. About the way he signed the papers without reading them. About the way he talked to Susan, to Tyler, to Chloe, like they were the only people in the room.
He hates us, Malcolm thought. He never wanted us. But why? What'd we do?
He didn't have an answer for that either.
He looked at Tiana, sleeping in the bed across from him. Her face was peaceful in a way it never was during the day. She looked young. She looked like the sister he'd pushed on the swings at Druid Hill Park, the one who'd laughed until her stomach hurt.
I'm gonna protect you, he thought. Both of you. No matter what.
But the words felt thin. He was ten years old. He had no money, no car, no phone that was his own. He had a father who wouldn't look at him, a stepmother who watched them like they were guests who'd overstayed, a stepbrother who was already looking for ways to hurt them.
He had his sisters. That was all.
Maya stirred beside him, her eyes opening for a moment, unfocused. "Malcolm?"
"I'm here."
She reached for him, her hand finding his arm, and settled back into sleep. He sat with her hand on his skin, her breathing slow and even, and he listened to the sounds of the house—the television downstairs, the creak of footsteps, the distant pop of fireworks somewhere in the neighborhood.
The new year was coming. A new year in a new house, with people who didn't want them.
He looked out the window. The sky was dark, the stars hidden by clouds, but somewhere beyond the houses, beyond the trees, he could see the faint glow of fireworks reflecting off the low ceiling.
What's gonna happen to us? he asked himself, the same question he'd asked a thousand times. What's gonna happen when Tyler gets tired of pushing? When Susan starts lookin' at Tiana the way she looks at those ornaments, like something to be handled careful?
He didn't know. He didn't know anything except that his sisters were asleep, and he was awake, and somewhere in the dark, a clock was ticking toward a year he couldn't imagine.
He pulled the blanket over Maya, tucked it around her shoulders, and lay down on the floor beside her. He didn't close his eyes. He watched the ceiling, listened to the sounds of the house settling, and he made himself a promise he didn't know how to keep.
He would figure it out. He would find out what Susan wanted. He would find out why Richard hated them. He would find a way to keep his sisters safe.
He didn't know how. But he would.
The fireworks stopped. The house went quiet. And in the dark, Malcolm lay awake, his eyes on the window, his hand on his sister's arm, waiting.
---