It Starts with Us by Colleen Hoover

He brought most of his things with him. The clothes I bought him, some of
the books. They’re all stuffed so tight in a backpack that barely zips, and he
holds it in his lap with the hope that he has at least one parent that will take
him.
“Can we wait a little bit?” he asks.
“Sure.”
While he waits, he fidgets with everything. The air vents, his seat belt, the
music on his Bluetooth. Ten minutes pass while I patiently give him the time
to work up whatever courage he’s in need of that will help him open the door.
I look at the house, taking my attention off Josh for a while. There’s an old
white Ford in the driveway, which is probably why Josh hasn’t worked up the
courage to walk across the street and knock on his door yet. It’s an indicator
that someone is probably home.
I haven’t tried to talk him out of this because I know what it’s like to want
to know your father. He’s going to live in this fantasy until he’s able to
confront his reality. As a kid, I had the highest hopes for family, too, but after
years of being disappointed, I realized that just because you’re born into a
group of people, that doesn’t make them your family.
“Should I just go knock?” Josh finally asks. He’s scared, and to be honest,
I’m not feeling the bravest right now, either. I went through a lot with Tim.
I’m not looking forward to seeing him again, and I am absolutely dreading
the potential outcome of this meeting.
I don’t think this is the best place for Josh, and I’m in no position to tell
him he can’t reconnect with his father. But my biggest fear is that he’s going
to choose to stay here. That Tim is going to be like my mother and welcome
Josh with open arms, simply because he knows it’s the one thing I don’t want
to happen.
“I can go with you if you want,” I say, even though it’s the last thing I
want to do. I’ll have to stand in front of that man and pretend I don’t want to
punch him for the sake of my little brother.
Josh doesn’t move for a while. I’m staring at my phone, attempting to
appear patient as he works up courage, but I want to throw the car in drive
and get him out of here.
I eventually feel Josh’s finger briefly graze an old scar on my arm, so I
look over at him. He’s staring at my arm, taking in the faded scars that
remain from the shit I endured living with Sutton and Tim. Josh has never
asked me about the scars, though.