The Room Down the Hall: When Family Moves In

“He’s here,” I muttered, watching from behind the kitchen curtain as Ryan’s battered Honda coughed up the driveway. He killed the engine, slung open the door, and for a moment just sat there, shoulders hunched, staring at the dash. I pressed my damp palms against the counter and tried to steady my breath. When he finally stepped out, the June heat pressed his wrinkled t-shirt to his back and his hair fell into his eyes. Two heavy duffel bags and a scuffed gym bag followed him, thudding onto the driveway like an unwanted announcement.

I wiped my hands on the dish towel and called over my shoulder, “He’s here, Stan.” My husband didn’t answer, just turned another page of his newspaper. The headline—Inflation Hits 40-Year High—stared up at him, but I knew he was thinking about Ryan’s arrival as much as I was. Maybe more.

I opened the screen door and stepped out. “Hey, Ry,” I called, forcing a smile.

“Aunt Kris.” He grinned, but it was awkward, like he’d forgotten how. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

I hugged him, feeling the hard bone beneath his oversized shirt. He was taller than I remembered, but thinner. “Let’s get you inside. You hungry?”

He shrugged. “A little.”

Stan watched from the living room as we lugged Ryan’s bags down the narrow hallway. The spare room—once my sewing nook, then storage for Christmas decorations—was now his. I’d cleared a path, stuffed boxes under the bed, folded a stack of towels. Ryan dropped his bags and looked around, silent.

“I know it’s not much—”

“It’s great,” he said quickly, forcing cheer. “I really appreciate it.”

He didn’t unpack right away. Just sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, looking at the faded posters I’d left up from Joey’s college days. After a minute, he asked, “Uncle Stan okay with this?”

I hesitated. “He’ll get used to it. It’s just… different. For all of us.”

Dinner was tense. Ryan picked at his food. Stan asked about his job hunt in Boston. Ryan mumbled, “No luck yet.”

Stan’s jaw tightened. “You gotta pound the pavement, Ryan. Can’t be picky.”

Ryan nodded, staring at his plate.

That night, I sat on the porch swing and listened to the cicadas. Stan joined me, arms folded. “How long’s he staying?”

“Just till he gets on his feet. He’s family.”

“Family’s supposed to help themselves, too.”

I sighed. “He just needs a break, Stan. His mom—my sister—she’s at her wits’ end. You know what happened with his dad.”

Stan didn’t answer. The silence between us was heavier than the humid air.

Weeks passed. Ryan slept late, wandered the house in pajamas at noon, made endless ramen. He said he was applying for jobs online, but I never saw him interview. Stan grew cold. “He’s got to pull his weight,” he grumbled. “It’s not a hotel.”

One afternoon, I found Ryan sitting on the back steps, smoking a cigarette. I startled him. “You know Stan hates those.”

He shrugged. “Sorry.”

I sat beside him. “What’s really going on, Ry?”

He stared into the yard. “I thought I’d have a plan by now. College was supposed to mean something. But every job wants experience, and I don’t have any. Or they want something else—connections, money. I’m just… stuck.”

I put my hand on his shoulder. “Everyone gets stuck. You just have to keep moving.”

He looked at me, eyes rimmed red. “Did you ever feel like you let everyone down?”

The question caught me off guard. “All the time.”

That night, the fight came. Stan slammed the door behind him as he came home from work and found Ryan watching TV, feet on the coffee table.

“Any luck today? Or just another episode of ‘Judge Judy’?” Stan barked.

Ryan flinched. “I sent out five applications.”

Stan scoffed. “That all? When I was your age, I worked two jobs, went to night school. You want to eat here, you pick up a broom or something!”

Ryan stood, fists clenched. “I said I’m trying!”

“Try harder!”

“Stan, enough!” I shouted, heart pounding. “He’s doing his best.”

Stan turned on me. “We’re not a charity, Kris. He’s not a kid anymore.”

Ryan stormed out the back door. I followed, but he was halfway down the block by the time I grabbed my shoes.

He came back after midnight, face drawn, shoulders sagging. “I’ll leave in the morning if you want,” he said quietly.

I shook my head. “You’re not leaving. Not like this.”

The days blurred. I found myself caught between them, running interference, smoothing over silences. Ryan tried, I saw it. He picked up groceries, fixed the leaky faucet, even mowed the lawn. But Stan’s patience had thinned to a thread. At night, I lay awake, guilt gnawing at me. Was I helping, or just enabling? Was Stan right? Was Ryan really trying, or hiding? My sister called every few days, her voice brittle. “Is he okay? Are you okay?”

One evening, I found Ryan in the kitchen, staring at a rejection email on his phone. Tears spilled down his cheeks. “Maybe I’m just not cut out for any of this.”

I pulled him into a hug. “You are. But you have to fight for it. We all do.”

He started therapy, found a part-time job at the hardware store. Things got quieter. Stan thawed, a little. I caught them talking about cars once, laughing softly.

Months later, Ryan packed his bags again. “I got a roommate. In Boston. It’s not much, but it’s a start.”

I hugged him tight, pride and sadness warring in my chest. “You’ll call?”

He nodded. “Every Sunday.”

When the house was quiet again, Stan put his arm around me. “You did good, Kris.”

But sometimes, late at night, I still wonder: How much should we give to family before it breaks us? And when do we know we’ve given enough?