Page 14 of A Sister's Secret

“Will he be okay without us?”

Lisa's heart clenched, but she held herself steady for her daughter. She knew what she had to do, not just for the children but also for Oliver.

"Let's get you back to bed," Lisa whispered, rising from the chair with Abigail clutched close. She walked down the hallway, the patter of the rain outside a rhythmic accompaniment to her thoughts. Once Abigail was tucked in and drifting back to sleep, Lisa returned to her research with renewed urgency.

The sun began to peek over the horizon as she finally closed her laptop, a list of potential lifelines for Oliver compiled. Support groups for addiction, grief counseling sessions, even a nearby rehab facility—each one a beacon of hope in the engulfing darkness of Oliver's depression.

Her heart raced at the thought of confronting him, of pushing past the barricades he'd erected around himself. But this wasn't just about them; it was also about Ethan, Abigail, Daniel, and Julia. She had to be strong for all of them.

She decided then to go back the next day. She needed to face Oliver and show him there was a path forward if only he would take the first step with her.

"Oliver needs to understand that I'm doing this because I love him," she murmured, a mix of determination and dread churning within her. The possibility of change, of redemption for their fractured family, was thrilling in its own right. Yet it was heart-stopping, too, knowing everything hinged on the conversation that awaited her.

She would bring Oliver back from the brink, not just for their sake but also for his own. She made this promise to herself, her children, and the man she loved, no matter how lost he seemed.

"Tomorrow," she whispered, the word a vow filled with suspenseful hope, "everything starts tomorrow."

Chapter Six

The creak of the door was softer than a whisper as Lisa stepped into the dimly lit living room. Her gaze immediately found Oliver, her husband, stretched out on the couch. His chest rose and fell with the deep rhythm of slumber, oblivious to the world around him. Sunlight fought its way through the half-closed blinds, casting long shadows over the scattered remnants of last night's solitude—a sea of empty beer bottles that stood testament to Oliver's inner turmoil.

Lisa's heart clenched at the sight, a familiar cocktail of worry and love stirring within her. She glanced at his face, peaceful in sleep, his dark hair tousled against the armrest. It was a stark contrast to the rugged hands that once skillfully navigated both fishing nets and wood grains, now lying limp by his side. In these quiet moments, she could almost forget the painful family history that haunted him, the invisible burden he bore that seemed to grow heavier with each passing day.

With practiced care, Lisa set down her purse and began the silent ritual of cleaning up. She maneuvered between the coffee table and the couch, retrieving bottles with grace borne from years of navigating the unpredictable waters of her first marriage. The clink of glass echoed softly as she placed them into the recycling bin one by one. Each movement was a silent offering of support, a hope whispered through action that this time might be different—that the tides would turn and carry Oliver back to safer shores.

As she gathered the last of the bottles, her mind replayed the countless times they had danced this dance. The thrill of their love and the suspense of not knowing what each new day would bring was part of the fabric of their shared existence. And yet, amidst the heartbreak, there was an unyielding determination in her eyes—an unwavering resolve that she would not let the storm claim the man she loved without a fight.

Lisa paused, looking down at Oliver again. His face, usually animated with laughter or furrowed in concentration while working on his latest woodworking project, now betrayed the signs of his battle with the demons of his past. She wanted to reach out, to smooth the worry lines from his forehead, but she refrained. Instead, she focused on the task at hand, allowing the familiar rhythm of tidying up to steady her own racing heart.

With the last bottle tucked away, she stood still for a moment, taking in the quiet aftermath. Lisa knew that when Oliver awoke, the real work would begin—the gentle nudging, the difficult conversations, the delicate balance between confrontation and compassion. The café, their shared dream, would open soon, and with it, another day filled with the possibility of change.

For now, though, she let the silence wrap around them like a comforting blanket, holding onto the hope that love, above all, would guide them through the storm.

Lisa moved to the kitchen, her movements a silent dance as she reached for the coffee pot. The rich aroma of ground beans filled the air, a scent that always seemed to bridge the gap between despair and a fresh start. She watched the dark liquid trickle into the carafe, each drop a promise of clarity and a nudge toward sobriety. Her hands were steady as she poured the steaming coffee into his favorite mug—the one with the faded anchor on the side, a nod to Oliver's days at sea.

She took a deep breath and carried the cup back to the living room. The morning sun peeked through the curtains, casting a warm glow over Oliver's slumbering form. Lisa's presence was a quiet beacon as she knelt beside the couch, her closeness a whisper of hope in the stillness.

"Oliver," she said softly, her voice laced with warmth yet carrying an undercurrent of urgency that the morning could no longer wait. His name was a prayer on her lips, a call to rise above the tempest that brewed within him.

With the patience of the tide returning to shore, she touched his shoulder, her fingertips conveying her resolve along with the tenderness that only love could foster. There was a moment of suspense, where time seemed to hang suspended, waiting for him to respond, to acknowledge the world beyond his troubled dreams.

"Hey," she continued, the single word tender but laden with expectations. "I made you some coffee. It's time to wake up."

The mug, placed within his reach, became a silent testament to her faith in him, a symbol of the normalcy they both desperately craved. The steam rose, carrying with it the unspoken messages of her heart—messages of concern and hurt but also of unwavering companionship.

Oliver's eyelids fluttered, a grimace contorting his features as the vestiges of sleep were chased away by reality’s harsh light. He shifted on the couch, his body protesting with a symphony of aches that resonated in his bloodshot eyes—a crimson map of the night’s excesses. The stark paleness of his skin stood out against the shadows that clung to him like specters of regret.

Lisa bit down on her lip, a fortress against the sorrow welling up inside her. She watched Oliver's struggle, every line of fatigue etched into his face serving as a reminder of the battles he fought within. His disheveled hair and the stubble lining his jaw spoke of a neglect that extended far beyond the physical, reaching into the depths where once the steady flame of resilience burned bright.

The room was silent, save for the soft tick of the clock on the mantle—a metronome to their life’s unsettling rhythm. The tension hung heavy, an unspoken question lingering in the air between them. Would today be different? Could the warmth from her steadfast heart thaw the cold grip of his affliction?

Lisa's heart ached, the weight of shared dreams and whispered promises bearing down on her chest. She fought back tears, refusing to let them fall, her strength a bulwark against the tides of despair threatening to breach her resolve. Her love for Oliver, a beacon in their tempest-tossed world, refused to be extinguished by the storms he summoned around himself.

In the quietude of that moment, Lisa’s presence—full of hope yet tinged with fear—blended with the morning light that now pooled around them, casting a hopeful yet uncertain glow upon the day's canvas. Oliver’s slow and pained awakening might just be the first step toward redemption or the prelude to another day lost to shadows. Their future, balanced precariously on the fulcrum of this fragile dawn, awaited his choice.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee sliced through the stale air, a silent herald of the morning's cold truth. Lisa set the steaming mug on the worn wooden table, its soft clink a punctuation in the stillness of their home. She perched on the edge of the couch, her gaze tracing the lines of exhaustion that etched themselves into Oliver's face.

"Oliver," she began, her voice steady despite the turmoil that raged within her. "Why are you doing this to yourself?" The words hung between them, charged with a desperate hope for clarity.

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