ACT 4: This House Is Not A Home

Last night, they became a band. Tonight, they break apart.

Start at ACT 1
to begin the journey.
Or catch up in
the last installment—ACT 3.

The rain had stopped, but something heavier was hanging in the air.

The Spelling home looked like something out of a design magazine—walnut cabinetry, marble counters, custom light fixtures flown in from Milan. But the glow was cold. Like an operating room pretending to be a home.

We sat at a reclaimed oak table with spaghetti and bagged Caesar salad. No candles. No wine. No one reaching for seconds. Food in the technical sense—like the house. Like the marriage. Present, but not alive.

I’d thought I was here to debrief.
Post-performance.A quiet dinner.
But something in the air said:
’No one’s performing tonight.’

Aaron sat with headphones on, listening to Sage’s demo of “Let’s Just Let It Rain.” The MIDI keyboard Lewis gave him sat unused. He wasn’t playing—just absorbing. Rewatching the night in his ears.

Sylvie sat on the couch, eyes flicking between her phone and a reality show meltdown—wine glasses about to fly. She didn’t react. Just watched, numb. The remote a shield. Holding the moment before it got worse.

In the kitchen, Emerson and Erin’s voices stayed low. At first.

"You could’ve told me you were bringing him here," Erin said—just loud enough for me to hear.

"I thought it might help," Emerson said. "He just moved here. I thought it might help him feel less alone."

Erin didn't answer right away. She glanced toward the living room—where Aaron sat, headphones still on, unaware of the storm building ten feet away. Sylvie was biting her thumbnail. "They were brave tonight, Emerson," she said. "They showed up in a way most adults wouldn't." She turned back to him. "And you turned it into a showcase."

He blinked. "I... I was trying to show them it mattered."

"No, Emerson." Her voice sharpened. "What I saw was my daughter trying to sing like someone she thought you'd love. Like someone you’d finally notice."

He stepped closer to her. She backed away, not dramatically—just enough to grab a dish towel she didn’t need. Something to hold. Something to do.

"This is what we’ve been working toward," Emerson said. "Songa is about rewriting the story, right? About presence over performance? That’s what tonight was."

"Then why do I still feel like an extra in your movie?" Erin snapped.

Aaron looked up, then slowly removed his headphones. Sylvie muted the TV. Both of them still, but alert.

"That’s not what this is," Emerson said, voice lowering.

"No?" She turned. "Because from where I’m standing, we’re all just props in the comeback tour you never asked if we wanted to join."

He looked at her, stunned. "You said yes to this."

"I said yes to you. Back when I thought the dream was ours."

That one landed hard. He stepped back, blinking like he’d walked into a bright light.

"You think I’m not scared too?" he said. "You think I don’t lie awake every night wondering if I’ve dragged our whole family into something that’s going to fall apart?"

"No, Emerson. I think you lie awake wondering if people still admire you,” she shot back. “You started Songa three months after you got uninvited from that keynote panel. You said it was about healing, but it was about proving you still mattered."

"And what, Erin? You think your people-pleasing is some kind of moral high ground? You’d rather disappear than disappoint anyone."

"Someone had to keep things steady, Emerson, while you spiraled from one legacy project to the next—feeding that little boy inside you who still thinks being special is the only way to be loved."

That landed with Emerson. Erin stepped forward, pressing her point. "Stop dragging your kids through the wreckage of your rebrand."

"You always say this is about the kids," Erin said. "But Aaron’s been depressed for two years and you didn’t notice until Sage put a mic in front of him."

"And you think dragging Sylvie into group therapy circles and telling strangers how she struggles with self-worth makes you mother of the year?" Emerson snapped. "God, no wonder she shuts down—she probably thinks she has to perform grief just to get a hug."

Sylvie stood. I hadn’t said a word in a while. I looked around, Erin in Emerson’s face now. I was already writing the scene in my head:

INT. SPELLING LIVING ROOM – NIGHT

Erin stands frozen in the kitchen, eyes locked on Emerson. The air has gone still.

ERIN: This was supposed to be mine.

On the couch, Aaron taps his fingers softly on his knee—like a kick drum. The rhythm is steady. Focused. A quiet protest.

AARON:(whispering) Boom. Boom. Boom. We all, we all, we all...

Sylvie stood. "You’re doing it again," she said.

Both parents turned.

"Doing what?" Emerson asked, too fast.

"Making it about you," Aaron said quietly. He set the headphones down beside the keyboard. "We finally said something real tonight. We showed you who we are. And now you’re both yelling about who’s more right."

"We’re not yelling," Emerson said.

"You are to us," Sylvie said. "We let ourselves be messy and honest and scared. And all we wanted was for you to do the same."

"We are being honest," Erin said, but her voice broke as she said it.

"No, you’re being dramatic," Emerson snapped. "You’re upset because the spotlight didn’t land where you wanted it to."

Erin went still. "You want honesty?" Her voice dropped. "You want something real, Emerson?"

He didn’t answer.

"Sometimes I wish I’d married someone who failed quietly. Who didn’t drag the whole family down with him on his way out of relevance."

Even Sylvie flinched.

"Wow," Emerson whispered. "That’s... impressive."

"Don’t pretend you don’t use them too," she shot back, nodding toward the kids. "You keep saying Songa is for them. But every pitch, every panel, every time you drop their names in a story, it’s about you being a good father."

"And you think dragging them to therapy, and staging ‘authentic’ moments for Jack to write about, isn’t about you being a good mother?"

Erin slammed the cabinet drawer closed. It echoed through the kitchen like a snare hit.

"This was supposed to be mine," she said.

I should’ve said something. Should’ve defused it. But I didn’t. I just sat there, fork half-raised, watching a family dismantle itself in real time—each of them trying to be seen, none of them knowing how to stop.

"You want to save the soul of business," Erin said. "Fine. But could you start by saving the soul of this house?"

Emerson opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Sylvie walked out of the room. The screen door creaked open. The rain hadn’t returned, but the air felt electric again. Something new was coming.

Aaron turned off the recording. The silence felt final.

And I realized the most powerful music I’d heard all night didn’t come from Sage’s guitar or Lewis Blues’ rhythm.

It came from a daughter who stood up, a son who spoke softly—and a mother who finally stopped trying to stay in key.

And still—what hit hardest wasn’t just their courage. It was the way Sylvie and Aaron, after an evening of learning how to name their emotions, were now rehearsing a different script: their parents’ silence, their volatility, their deflection. They were watching how adults love—and learning how not to.

But Erin wasn’t done. Not yet.

"And Wyoming?" she asked, voice quiet now—too quiet. "I’ve never even met this man, Emerson. You’re putting our savings behind a movement run by someone who won't even show his face."

He looked at her, jaw tightening. "I’ve met him. I trust him."

"Right. And what about Forbes? Another reformed tech bro who thinks redemption comes with a TED Talk? You trust him too?"

"They believe in Songa. They see what this could be—"

"No, Emerson. They believe in you. They always have. Just like the last guys. And the ones before them. Because you know how to sell a dream. But do you even know how to live inside one?"

He stepped forward again, searching her face. "Why are you saying all this now?"

She stared at him, eyes burning. "Because it was supposed to be my turn."

He blinked.

"I stood by you through all of it. But this time? This was supposed to be mine. You were going to take care of the kids. I was going to build something for once—something that was mine. Not yours with my name on it."

"This is yours," he said, too fast. "You’re the heart of this."

She laughed. "You are the keynote. I’m the one staging open houses and dragging the kids to therapy. You get the vision. I get the logistics."

He opened his mouth again, but she cut him off.

"You can’t sit still, Emerson. So you started another company—except this time, it’s our lives. And I’m not sure I ever said yes to that."

Aaron ran to his room. The door slammed. A beat later: desk drumming—soft but steady. Then humming. Off-key. Honest. Something new beginning in the space the fight had carved out.

She grabbed her coat, slung her purse over her shoulder, and followed the kids out the door. Emerson stood there for a long moment. Then he turned to me and sighed.

"If this makes it into the screenplay, give me better lines."

---

“Relationships lose rhythm. Find your beat
—while staying in tune”
That night, Aaron found the words.
Songa’s band turned them into a song…

Before continuing onto ACT 5 below.

Go paid to hear “Beat of Your Drum.”
And see how your family could be next.

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