“I’m not really into clutter.” I trailed after my mother as she made her way back into the living room. “Like I said, I’ll see Charlotte next week—”

“Can I have a glass of water? I’m parched,” Mom interrupted, putting a hand to her throat dramatically.

I sighed but nodded. “Sure.”

When I came back with the glass of water I found my mother looking through my mail. “Find anything interesting?” I asked drily, handing her the glass and taking the stack of bills from her hand.

Mom took a sip, looking at me over the rim of her cup. “Come with me to see Charlotte,” she tried again.

“I’ll see her in a few days,” I countered.

She walked from one end of the room to the other and I watched her warily. “You’ve never had me over for dinner.”

“What?” I asked in confusion, raising my eyebrows.

“Or coffee. Or even a movie. Why is that? You’ve lived in this house for three years and this is only the fifth time I’ve been here.”

“We don’t do coffee, Mom. Or movies. Or dinner,” I pointed out, feeling uncomfortable. What had gotten into her today? She seemed agitated. It filled me with a disquiet I couldn’t identify.

“No. But you used to go to the movies with your dad. Once a month. It was your special thing,” she mused, her smile a little bitter, her eyes a little sad.

“Mom—”

“I’d say we could go to lunch or see a movie, but we wouldn’t do that, would we?” she asked, and I didn’t bother to answer. Not when we both knew what the answer would be.

“Did you hear about the federal investigation against Ryan Law?” she asked suddenly.

“Yes. I did hear about that.” I cleared my throat, unsettled by the clashing of my two lives in that one simple question..

“I’m glad. They’re not very nice people.” She wiped her eyes and gave me a smile. “Karma’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

“I guess,” I said slowly, wondering. Always wondering.

She pulled something out of her purse and handed it to me. I took the ornate silver frame and looked down at the photograph. “Where did you find this?”

“I was going through boxes in the attic to take to Goodwill. I’m cleaning out a lot of things and I found your father’s stuff from the office. He used to have that picture on his desk, if you remember.” My mother’s face softened as she gazed at the photograph of Charlotte and me, our arms slung around each other, standing knee deep in a pile of leaves.

“Yeah, I remember,” I whispered, staring down at the picture. My mom’s mood made sense now. Thinking about Dad had that effect on her. On both of us.

Mom glanced around the barren room. “I have other pictures if you want them—”

“No, this is enough,” I cut in, putting the picture down on the coffee table. My chest felt tight. My eyes burned.

I hated feeling this way.

Like I was drowning.

Drowning in memories of a time I could never get back. Drowning in memories that served only to remind me of how much I had lost.

This was why I avoided spending time with my mother. The feelings she evoked suffocated me.

Mom finished drinking the rest of her water, the only noise coming from the television. It was uncomfortable. Awkward. The innocent smiles of my sister and me mocked from the coffee table.

It was in moments like this that I truly missed my father more than usual. His easy smile. His silly jokes. I hadn’t ever felt out of place with him.

—

“What are you working on up here?” Dad asked, appearing in the doorway to my room.

I looked up from my computer. I had been messing with some simple coding, getting totally absorbed in the strings of numbers and letters.

Dad came into my room and sat down on the bed, looking over my shoulder as I worked. “That looks complicated.”

I laughed. “It’s just some basic JavaScript. It’s really not a big deal.”

“That’s pretty incredible, Han. How did you learn to do this stuff?” Dad asked, clearly impressed. And proud. He was always proud of me.

“I’ve been doing some reading. I think it’s pretty cool.”

Dad let out a low whistle, grinning widely. “There’s not a day that goes by that I’m not blown away by you, Han. You’re going to be something amazing one day. I can’t wait to see everything you accomplish.” He kissed the top of my head and I felt so happy.

Dad got me in a way that Mom didn’t. I knew she wished I was more like Charlotte. Into shopping and sports instead of spending my time behind a computer screen.

Dad accepted me and encouraged whatever I wanted to do.

“Whatever, Dad. It’s just a hobby,” I protested modestly.

“Don’t do that, Hannah,” he scolded.

“Don’t do what?” I frowned.

“Make light of your talents. If you’re good at something, own it. Celebrate it. Don’t hide it away.” He smiled again. “Now show me what exactly you’re doing.”

—

My dad had made up for what lacked between my mother and me. Having his love mattered more than what I was missing from her.

Memories of Dad were bittersweet. I loved them. I hated how they hurt. Even after all this time it felt like I was being ripped open.

When I lost my father, I lost the one person who accepted me and loved me in equal measure. I lost someone I felt close to.

I hadn’t felt that sort of connection since. Except with Charlotte. And that was all mixed up with grief and pain. I had forgotten what it felt like to be cared about and not to have it hurt.

I had tried with Rose. Our quasi friendship had resembled intimacy, but it had ultimately proven toxic for both of us. I had attempted to get close to a boy or two in college, but it had all been so empty.

I spent most days believing I was okay with the isolation. That I required it to exist.

Then my mother came along with a picture of my sister and me, reminding me of exactly what I was missing.

My mother fidgeted with the strap of her purse, pulling it up higher onto her shoulder.

“We don’t do coffee or lunch, but maybe you could come by the house sometime,” she suggested tentatively.

I knew she meant well. She always did.

But that ship had sailed.