We still heard about Dad through his sister, Lydia.

Aunt Lydia was the only one on his side who didn’t pretend we imagined what he did. She came by one Sunday with store-bought cookies and gossip she clearly didn’t enjoy sharing.

“That man has always cared more about looking successful than actually being it,” she muttered when Mom wasn’t in the room.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

She pressed her lips together. “It means don’t believe what you see on his Instagram.”

“We stopped looking a while ago. Even Nora blocked him, and she used to check it constantly.”

Lydia nodded. “Good. That’s for the best.”

A year passed. There were still quiet nights, still moments when the damage showed.

But Mom wasn’t broken the same way anymore. She had her own income, her own routines. She rebuilt her life without waiting to be chosen.

Then one evening, the past came back.

Mom was baking because she wanted to, not because anyone expected dessert. The kitchen smelled like vanilla and brown sugar. Ben was sneaking cookie dough when her phone rang.

Mom glanced at the screen. “Lydia.” She answered and put it on speaker.

“Kayla,” Lydia said, her voice shaking, “you need to come here. RIGHT NOW.”

We all froze.

“What happened?” Mom asked.

There was a pause.

Then my aunt said something that made Mom go completely still.

“Remember what your ex said about your ‘expiration date’? You need to see what he looks like now.”

Mom said quietly, “We’re coming.”

She hung up.

The drive was silent, except for Owen asking once, “Is he sick?”

Mom kept her eyes on the road. “All I know is I’m not going there to save him.”

“Nobody expects you to,” I said.

Lydia opened the door before we knocked. She looked exhausted. “The surgery didn’t go well.”

Mom froze. We exchanged glances.

“What do you mean?” Mom asked. “What surgery?”

“He spent everything trying not to get old.” Lydia motioned us inside. “Surgeries, treatments, injections, hair restoration, skin tightening—everything. Every time someone promised he’d look younger, he paid.”

“And Tessa?” Nora asked.

“She left as soon as the credit cards ran out.”

Mom didn’t react. “And now?”

“He couldn’t afford his apartment. He’s been here two weeks.”

Then we walked into the living room.

Dad sat in Lydia’s recliner, and for a moment, I didn’t recognize him.

His face looked wrong—tight in some places, pulled in others. One eye slightly off. His cheeks uneven. His hair darker in an unnatural way.

He didn’t look younger.