Sunday morning at home smells like pancakes and regret, which is a combination I wouldn't recommend but here we are anyway.
I'm sitting at the kitchen table watching Dad flip pancakes with the precision of someone who's done this ten thousand times.
The spatula makes efficient movements, and I'm jealous of its certainty because I have the decision-making capabilities of a goldfish with amnesia.
"Victoria called," Dad says, not looking at me. He slides a perfect golden pancake onto a plate with the kind of casual competence that makes me want to throw something. "She booked that opening spot for the spring semester. She wants to know if you're interested."
My stomach drops seventeen floors and lands near my ankles. I knew this conversation was coming, but eventually it was supposed to be later, like when I'd had time to process the last three days that felt like a slow-motion car crash.
"That’s… that’s too soon. I need time to decide." The words come out strangled because apparently my vocal cords have decided to participate in this mess by staging their own dramatic performance.
Dad finally looks at me, spatula still in hand like some kind of domestic warrior ready to flip both pancakes and uncomfortable truths.
"Sometimes opportunities don't wait, Maddie. They show up when they show up, and you either grab them or watch them walk away."
He sets a plate of pancakes in front of me with the kind of gentle care that makes my chest hurt. "What do you actually want? Not what Emily wants, not what Coach wants. You. What do you want?"
I stare at the pancakes like they might spontaneously arrange themselves into helpful life advice. They don't. "I want to stop feeling like I'm drowning everyone around me."
"You're not drowning anyone." Dad sits down across from me, setting his spatula aside with finality. "But you're sure as hell drowning yourself. You've been treading water for weeks, maybe months, trying to keep everyone else afloat while you go under."
I shove a piece of pancake around my plate, building maple syrup moats that serve no purpose except giving me something to focus on that isn't Dad’s concerned face.
"Emily's suffering because of me. Coach said her performance is declining. The whole team's watching us implode in real time."
"Emily will be fine," Dad says, his voice steady in a way that makes me want to believe him. "She was skating brilliantly before this relationship tension. She's talented and driven. Maybe giving her space is the kindest thing you can do for both of you right now."
The words hit like a physical blow even though they're delivered gently. I set down my fork because suddenly eating feels impossible when your chest is collapsing inward like a building undergoing controlled demolition. "I love her. I love Emily."
"I know you do." Dad reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. "But sometimes love isn't enough when the situation is unhealthy. Sometimes the most loving thing is to step back and let you both breathe. Let you both figure out who you are separately."
I pull my hand away and stand because sitting still feels impossible. The kitchen suddenly feels too small, too full of conversations I'm not ready to have. "I need some air."
"Maddie—" Dad starts, but I'm already moving toward the back door, grabbing my jacket like it's a life preserver.
Outside, the backyard is cold and grey, matching my emotional state with uncomfortable accuracy.
I sit on the porch steps and pull my jacket tighter, trying to breathe like a normal person instead of someone having an extended crisis about their entire life.
The door opens behind me, and I know without looking that it's my mother. Mom has this particular way of moving, quiet but purposeful, like she's always exactly where she needs to be at exactly the right moment.
She sits down beside me without saying anything, and we stay like that for a while, just breathing in the cold air and pretending we're not both very aware of why I'm out here instead of eating pancakes.
"Are you okay?" she finally asks, and the question is so gently delivered that it makes something crack inside my chest.
I pull my knees up and wrap my arms around them, making myself as small as possible because maybe if I compress enough, I'll just disappear into a dimension where I don't have to make impossible decisions. "Do you think I should transfer? To Victoria's program?"
Mom is quiet for a long moment, and when she speaks, her voice is measured and careful. "I think you should do what's best for you, sweetheart. Not what your father wants, not what Emily wants, not what your coach wants or anyone else wants. What do you want for yourself?"
"I want to not be a burden anymore," I say, my voice breaking. "I want to not feel like I'm destroying Emily's career by existing in her orbit. I want to skate without feeling like every jump is another way I'm letting everyone down."
Mom puts her arm around my shoulders and pulls me close, and I let myself lean into her because sometimes you're twenty years old and drowning in impossible choices and you just need your mom. "Then maybe it's time to make a change. Maybe distance will help you both find your footing again."
We sit there for a while longer, and eventually the cold gets unbearable enough that we go back inside. Dad looks up from the dishes, reads our expressions, and doesn't ask questions. Smart man.
Later, in my childhood bedroom with its familiar walls and old skating posters, I pull out my phone. My hands are shaking as I open the text thread with Emily, and for a long moment I just stare at our last messages, back when things were simpler and I wasn't about to blow up my entire life. Or maybe I was—even then.
I type and delete about seventeen different versions before settling on something that feels true even though it hurts to write: ‘I'm staying here. I'm transferring to Victoria's program. We're not good for each other right now. I'm sorry.’
My finger hovers over the send button for what feels like an eternity but is probably only thirty seconds. Then I press it, and the message goes through with a quiet swoosh that sounds deceptively casual for something that feels like detonating a bomb.
Before Emily can respond, before I can second-guess myself for the hundredth time, I turn off my phone completely. The screen goes black, final and absolute.
I sit there in the silence of my childhood room, surrounded by old skating posters and participation trophies from when things were simpler.
The question hangs in the air: is this what growing up feels like, or have I just made the biggest mistake of my life? The answer, probably, is both.