Lilith and I finally managed to sit down for a movie — something with explosions, probably, because that’s what she calls “relaxing.” We weren’t watching it for the plot. We just wanted to sit next to each other on the loveseat, in the dark, without anyone needing a snack or a diaper or a moral lesson.
We had maybe thirty seconds of peace before Lilith got up to grab something — a drink, a blanket, I don’t even remember. I stayed put, guarding the seat like it was sacred territory.
The opening credits had barely started when I heard footsteps on the stairs.
Lionel.
Of course.
He wandered into the living room like he’d just remembered movies existed. “Oh hey,” he said, all casual innocence. “What are we watching?”
I didn’t even get a chance to answer. He looked at the loveseat. Looked at me. Looked at the empty space Lilith had just vacated.
And then he smiled.
Not a friendly smile.
A strategic smile.
Before I could react, he slid onto the loveseat right next to me — smooth, confident, absolutely planned. He settled in like he’d been invited, leaned back, and stretched his arm across the back of the cushions.
Lilith came back into the room and stopped dead.
Lionel patted the cushion beside him — my cushion — and said, “Seat’s taken. But there’s a chair.”
Lilith stared at him.
I stared at him.
Lionel stared at the TV like nothing was happening.
“Thanks for saving me a spot,” he said, as if we had.
Lilith exhaled through her nose. “We didn’t.”
“I know,” he said cheerfully.
I swear he did it on purpose.
Actually, I don’t swear — I know.
Every time Lilith and I try to have a moment, Lionel appears like some kind of supernatural intimacy alarm system. He doesn’t even need fangs. He has timing, and that’s worse.
Lilith narrowed her eyes at him, then at me, then at the chair she was apparently supposed to sit in.
She leaned down and whispered, “We should start locking doors.”
Without looking away from the screen, Lionel said, “I can hear you.”
Of course he could.
And he still didn’t move.
Marina completed her transformation on a quiet evening, right in the middle of visiting with us. One moment she was sitting on the couch, chatting with Lilith about the twins’ birthday chaos; the next, she went still in that unmistakable way — the air tightening around her like a held breath.
Lilith and I exchanged a look.
Here we go.
A shimmer passed over Marina’s skin, her eyes sharpening, her posture straightening as if someone had pulled invisible strings. When she finally exhaled, it came out as a soft, startled laugh.
“Oh,” she said, touching her face. “I feel… different.”
Lilith smiled, proud and a little smug. “You look different.”
I nodded. “In a good way. Very vampire‑y.”
Marina rolled her eyes, but she was glowing — not literally, not sparkly, but with that new‑vampire clarity, the kind that makes the world feel too sharp and too bright and too possible.
She stayed for a little while longer, letting the new instincts settle, asking a few questions, testing her fangs on a juice box (which did not survive). But eventually she stood, steady and sure.
“I should head home,” she said. “Before I start climbing the walls or something.”
Lilith snorted. “You will. Everyone does.”
Marina waved us off and slipped into the night, her steps lighter than they’d ever been.
When the door closed behind her, Lilith leaned against me with a sigh. “We’ve created enough offspring for now.”
“Agreed,” I said immediately. “No more turning unless someone gets burned up in the sunlight.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That better not happen.”
“It won’t,” I promised. “But if it does, we’ll… reassess.”
Lilith laughed — that low, warm sound that always makes the house feel safer than it should. “Good. Because I’m done expanding the vampire population for a while.”
“Same,” I said. “Let the fledgling house handle the chaos.”
Lilith was done with toddlers missing the potty. Not just tired — spiritually done. The kind of done where she stared at the floor like it had personally betrayed her.
Nova’s latest disaster didn’t help.
She hadn’t just missed the potty.
She had missed both potty chairs.
Both.
I found Lilith standing in the doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight, looking at the scene like she was assessing battlefield casualties.
“I swear,” she muttered, “if this child grows up to be a slob, I’m blaming the universe.”
Nova toddled past Lilith, lower lip wobbling, eyes big and shiny. She wasn’t humming this time — she was sad. Really sad. The kind of sad where her whole face scrunched up like the floor had personally betrayed her.
She kept glancing at the mess, then at us, then back at the mess again, like she couldn’t believe something so awful had happened in her vicinity.
But she wasn’t taking credit for it.
Not even a little.
She gave me this tiny, wounded look on her way out of the room — the look of a toddler who has decided the universe is unfair but isn’t sure why.
And then she toddled off, shoulders drooping, as if the mess had emotionally offended her.
Lilith pinched the bridge of her nose. “Two chairs, Nova. Two. How did you even—” She stopped herself. “No. I don’t want to know.”
And she still had Elias to get through potty training.
One more child.
One more tiny, adorable, chaos‑powered creature determined to test the limits of her patience and the structural integrity of the house.
I stepped up beside her. She hadn’t moved in a full minute.
“You okay?” I asked.
“No,” she said flatly. “I am one accident away from setting all the potty chairs on fire.”
I nodded. “Reasonable.”
She sighed, grabbed the cleaning supplies, and muttered, “I cannot wait for the day I never have to clean poop off the floor again.”
That first night Nova slept alone in the toddler room was rough.
She tried — she really did — but without her sisters breathing beside her, the room felt too big, too quiet, too empty.
By morning, we found her curled up on Thalia’s old bed, tiny and folded in on herself like she was trying to make her body smaller than the loneliness.
Every night after that, we were hopeful.
Every morning, we found her in a different bed — Selene’s, Thalia’s, sometimes even half‑asleep on the rug with her blanket dragged behind her like a defeated flag.
She wasn’t ready to sleep alone.
And honestly? I wasn’t ready for her to, either.
The night before the twins’ first day of school, no one slept.
Selene was gloomy, of course — convinced school would be terrible, that homework would ruin her life, that waking up early was a personal attack. Thalia tried to be brave, but her eyes kept darting toward the window like school might sneak up on her in the dark.
And because the twins couldn’t sleep, the rest of the house didn’t either.
By 3 a.m., Lilith gave up and declared it “birthday cake time,” which is how all five children ended up eating leftover cake in their pajamas while the adults pretended this was normal.
Morning came anyway.
The twins put on their new clothes, grabbed their backpacks, and marched out the door — Selene sighing dramatically, Thalia clutching her lunchbox like a lifeline.
And suddenly the house felt… empty.
Just three adults, one toddler, and one infant.
A strange kind of quiet.
Which is how all of us ended up standing in a semicircle, watching Nova use the potty like it was a major sporting event.
She beamed.
We clapped.
It was ridiculous.
But Nova was sad that day.
Everyone had gone away — to school, to big‑kid things — and she was home “alone,” even though she had three adults hovering over her like anxious satellites.
She wandered the house with her blanket, lower lip trembling, looking for her sisters in all the places they weren’t.
So I scooped her up and settled on the loveseat in the office, a book in my hand and her head on my shoulder.
She relaxed slowly, the way toddlers do — all trust and warm weight.
I read to her, soft and steady, and she listened even though she didn’t understand half the words.
And somewhere in the middle of the story, I felt it hit me:
They were growing up.
All of them.
Faster than I was ready for.
I held her a little tighter.
Because one day.
One day she’d be the one walking out the door with a backpack too big for her.
And I wasn’t ready.
Not even close.
Nova paid for getting up so early.
I walked into the kitchen mid‑morning and found her lying flat on the floor, face pressed against the tile, blanket half‑dragged behind her like she’d collapsed mid‑journey. She didn’t even pretend she wasn’t tired — she just sighed once, curled up, and went to sleep right there.
I scooped her up before she could drool on the grout. She didn’t stir, not even a twitch. Just melted into my shoulder like a warm, exhausted noodle.
“She’s never going to sleep through the night at this rate,” I muttered, carrying her upstairs.
Lilith glanced over from the dining table, where she had all three big kids lined up with their homework. “None of them sleep through the night,” she said. “It’s tradition.”
I carried Nova up to her bed — her actual bed, not one of the twins’ — and tucked her in. She didn’t even open her eyes. Just curled into the blankets and let out a tiny, contented sigh.
I brushed her hair back and whispered, “You’re going to be up at midnight again, aren’t you?”
She didn’t answer, but I already knew.
And for a moment, standing in the quiet of the toddler room, I felt it again — that soft ache of watching them grow faster than I can hold onto.
But I tucked her in anyway, kissed her forehead, and went back downstairs to the noise.
Selene groaned over her worksheet. Thalia tried to help her, which only made Selene groan louder. Lucian was already finished, of course, but stayed to do some extra credit.
Upstairs, Lionel was pacing with Elias in his arms, bouncing him gently, whispering something soothing. Elias blinked sleepily, fighting it with the stubbornness of a tiny creature who believed naps were a personal insult.
“Almost down,” Lionel whispered, rocking him like a pro.
When Lucian finished his homework, he looked at Lionel with that careful, hopeful look he always used when he wanted something big but didn’t want to seem demanding.
“Can we go to the park?” he asked. “A real one. With a playground.”
Lionel didn’t even pretend to think about it. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Let’s go.”
They walked together, Lucian practically bouncing, Lionel matching his pace with that patient, steady stride that had become second nature around the kids. By the time they reached the playground, Lucian was already climbing, swinging, running — burning off the kind of energy only children and very young vampires seem to have.
Lionel watched him with a small smile, hands in his pockets, the late afternoon light catching the edges of his face. There was pride there. And something else. Something quieter.
After a while, Lucian slowed down, breathless and pink‑cheeked, and wandered over to the bench where Lionel sat. He climbed up beside him, knees pulled to his chest, leaning just close enough to touch but not quite.
“Lionel?” he said.
“Mm?”
“Can I ask you something? It’s… kind of weird.”
Lionel turned toward him, gentle as always. “You can ask me anything.”
Lucian hesitated, chewing his lip. “Why aren’t you a vampire?”
Lionel blinked, then let out a soft breath. “Ah. That one.”
Lucian nodded, eyes big and earnest. “You live with us. You help with the babies. You stay up all night. You’re… like us. But you’re not.”
Lionel smiled, but it was a sad smile. “I was just born different. Not everyone in a vampire family has fangs.”
Lucian thought about that. “Do you ever wish you were one?”
“No,” Lionel said quietly. “I like being what I am. It lets me help in ways you all can’t.”
Lucian’s shoulders relaxed a little. “Oh.”
A pause.
“…What if I’m not a vampire?” he whispered.
Lionel’s expression softened. “Then you’d still be you. Still neat. Still responsible. Still the boy who tries too hard and cares too much. None of that comes from fangs.”
Lucian nodded slowly, absorbing it.
“But what if I am one?” he asked.
“Then you’ll learn what that means when you’re older,” Lionel said. “Your powers won’t show up until you’re a teenager. You’ve got time.”
Lucian looked down at his shoes. “I kind of want to be like you.”
That one hit Lionel hard — you could see it in the way he froze for a second, the way his breath caught. His own children were long gone. His family, his life, his world — all of it behind him. And here was this boy, this child he loved like a son, saying he wanted to be like him.
“Lucian,” he said softly, “being good isn’t about what you are. It’s about what you choose. Vampire or not, you get to decide the kind of person you want to be.”
Lucian leaned into him then, small and warm and trusting. “So… if I didn’t want to be a vampire… I could choose that?”
Lionel hesitated — not because he didn’t know the answer, but because he knew what it meant.
“When you’re older,” he said gently. “Yes. There’s a cure. A real one. But that’s a decision for your future self.”
Lucian nodded, thoughtful and quiet.
Lionel wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close. “Whatever you become, whatever you choose — I’ll be here. You’re not doing any of it alone.”
Lucian hugged him then — a real hug, tight and earnest — and Lionel closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself feel it.
Because he knew the truth:
Lucian was getting older.
He had friends his own age now.
He wouldn’t need Lionel forever.
And Lionel’s time with this family — this strange, loud, loving household — was coming to an end.
But for now, on that bench, with Lucian’s head against his shoulder and the playground quiet around them, he let himself have this moment.
Just this one.
It had been a long time since I checked on my family.
Not because I was angry. Not because I was avoiding them.
Just… because I didn’t feel pulled toward that life anymore.
The only updates I ever got were when Ginger called Lilith — short conversations, polite, surface‑level. I listened from the other room, never stepping in, never asking to take the phone. It wasn’t painful. It just wasn’t mine anymore.
But something about the kids growing up, about the house settling into a new rhythm, about me finally feeling steady in my own skin — it made me curious. Not nostalgic. Just curious.
So one night, after everyone was asleep except the vampires, I sat down and did a deep dive into my family tree. Not to reconnect. Not to reach out. Just to know.
Ginger had five siblings.
I’d forgotten that.
Uncle Basil, Uncle Colby, and Uncle Reuben were all married now.
Aunt Saffron had died recently — electrocution, which felt like exactly the kind of chaotic ending she would’ve hated.
And Aunt Berry… was married to Nathalie’s father.
I stared at that one for a long moment.
“Oops,” I muttered.
Not a lot of cousins, either. Only two teens on the whole tree. A small family, scattered and thinning out.
And I didn’t feel much of anything about it.
Not sadness. Not guilt.
Just… distance.
Like looking at a map of a place I used to live but barely remember.
Then I checked Lionel’s family tree.
That one hit harder.
Two children.
Four grandchildren.
All gone.
Eight great‑grandchildren — and one of them, Katelin Strange, had one of my babies. Raina Strange.
Seven great‑great‑grandchildren after that.
A whole line of people he would never meet.
A whole legacy he carried alone.
I sat back, letting the weight of it settle.
Lionel had lost more than I ever realized.
And yet he stayed.
He helped raise my kids.
He held the house together.
He loved Lucian like a son.
And one day — soon — he’d leave us too.
Not because he wanted to.
Because he knew he should.
I closed the family tree and sat in the quiet for a long time.
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