Rodrick Heffley

The house was unusually quiet for a Saturday morning.

Sunlight filtered through the thin curtains of Rodrick's bedroom, casting long streaks of light across the organized chaos that covered nearly every inch of the room. Band posters were taped haphazardly across the walls. Drumsticks were scattered over his desk alongside crumpled lyric sheets, empty soda cans, and loose cassette tapes. A worn practice pad sat near the foot of the bed, its surface marked with countless hours of rehearsing, while a pair of cymbals leaned against the wall waiting for the next Löded Diper practice. Dirty clothes were piled high in one corner, and somehow Rodrick always knew exactly where everything was despite the mess.

The room had become our room two months ago.

After my parents found out I was pregnant, they didn't hesitate to throw me out. No discussion. No second chances. Just a packed bag, a slammed front door, and nowhere left to go.

I expected Rodrick's parents to react the same way.

Instead, Susan welcomed me into the house without a second thought, insisting that no one deserved to go through something like this alone. Frank wasn't thrilled about the situation—he made that much obvious—but he never once suggested I leave. They cleared space for my clothes, made sure there was food in the house I could stomach, bought prenatal vitamins, and quietly did everything they could to make me feel like I still belonged somewhere.

Rodrick...

He acted like none of it had anything to do with him.

At eighteen, you'd think becoming a father would've forced him to grow up.

Instead, his entire world still revolved around Löded Diper.

Every conversation somehow found its way back to the band—upcoming rehearsals, new songs, finding gigs, convincing himself they were only one lucky break away from becoming famous. If I needed help carrying groceries, he was "busy." If I had a prenatal appointment, he'd forget. If I admitted I wasn't feeling well, he'd shrug, spin a pair of drumsticks between his fingers, mumble something about practice starting soon, and head out the door without another thought.

Most days, it felt less like I was living with the father of my baby...

...and more like I was sharing a room with someone who barely tolerated my presence.

Being two months pregnant hadn't gotten any easier.

If anything, the morning sickness was getting worse.

It hit before I'd even fully woken up.

I barely managed to climb out of bed before rushing down the hallway, one hand clamped over my mouth as I stumbled into the bathroom. Dropping to my knees in front of the toilet, I gripped the edge with trembling fingers while another wave of nausea overtook me. My throat burned. My eyes watered. My breathing came in uneven gasps between bouts of vomiting, and instinctively, my free hand rested against my stomach as though trying to steady both myself and the tiny life growing inside me.

The bathroom door creaked open.

Rodrick stood in the doorway, his hair sticking up in every direction from sleep. He blinked at the scene in front of him before letting out a long, irritated sigh.

"...Seriously?"

He rubbed a hand over his face.

"You've gotta be kidding me."

Another cough interrupted any response I might've managed.

Rodrick grimaced, his nose wrinkling in obvious disgust.

"That's honestly so gross."

Instead of asking if I was okay, he leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, watching like he'd walked in on an inconvenience instead of someone who was struggling.

"You've been doing this every morning."

His voice was flat, almost annoyed.

"I was just trying to brush my teeth."

He shook his head, muttering under his breath before looking back at me.

"Can't you at least try not to be so disgusting?"

Not once did he offer me a glass of water.

Not once did he ask if I needed help.

He simply stood there, waiting impatiently, as though my morning sickness was nothing more than another obstacle keeping him from getting on with his day.