Two months ago, through no fault of his own, he got a part. Someone he’d met years ago during one of his auditions was staging a production of A Raisin in the Sun. When he told my mom, the first thing she asked was “How much you getting paid?”

Not Congratulations. Not I’m so proud of you. Not Which part? or When is it? or Are you so excited? Just How much you getting paid?

She looked at him with flat eyes when she said it. Unimpressed eyes. Tired eyes that had just come off two shifts in a row.

I think we were all a little shocked. She’d even shocked herself. Yes, she’d been frustrated with him for years, but that one moment showed us all how far apart they really were now. Even Peter, who sides with my mother in all things, flinched a little.

Still. You couldn’t fault her. Not really. My father had been dreaming his life away for years. He lived in those plays instead of the real world. He still does. My mother didn’t have time for dreaming anymore.

Neither do I.

HE’S A LITTLE AFRAID OF NATASHA, to be honest. The things she’s interested in now? Chemistry and physics and math. Where did they come from? Sometimes when he looks at her doing her homework at the kitchen table, he thinks she belongs to someone else. Her world is bigger than him and the things he taught her to be interested in. He doesn’t know when she outgrew him.

One night after she and Peter had gone to bed, he went to the kitchen for water. She’d left her math book and homework on the table. Samuel doesn’t know what overcame him, but he turned on the light, sat down, and flipped through the book. It looked like hieroglyphics, like some ancient language left by a time and a people he could never hope to understand. It filled him with a kind of dread. He sat there for a long time, running his fingers over the symbols, wishing his skin were porous enough to let all the knowledge and history of the world in.

After that night, every time he looked at her he had the vague sense that someone had come in when he wasn’t looking and snatched his sweet little girl away.

Sometimes, though, he still catches a glimpse of the old Natasha. She’ll give him a look like she used to when she was younger. It’s a look that wants something from him. A look that wants him to be more, do more, and love more. He resents it. Sometimes he resents her. Hasn’t he done enough already? She’s his first child. He’s already given up all his dreams for her.

I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO with myself now. I’m supposed to be blowing with the wind, but there’s no wind anymore. I want to get a hobo outfit and a sandwich board and scrawl What now, Universe? across it. Now might be a good time to admit that the universe is not paying attention, though.

It’s fair to say that I hate everything and everyone.

The universe is an asshole, just like Charlie.

Charlie.

That sack of shit.

Charlie, who told my would-be girlfriend that we didn’t stand a chance. Charlie, who accused her of being a shoplifter. Charlie, who told her I had a small dick. Charlie, who I’ve wanted to punch in the face for eleven years now.

Maybe this is the wind. My hate for Charlie.

No time like the present.

I’ve got nothing left to lose today.

THE PARALEGAL IS A LITTLE more rumpled when I see her this time. A lock of her hair is out of place and falls into her eyes. Her eyes are glitter under the fluorescent lights, and her bright red lipstick is gone. She looks like she’s been kissed.

I check my phone to make sure I’m not too early or late, but I’m right on time.

“Welcome back, Ms. Kingsley. Follow me, please.”

She stands and begins walking. “Jeremy—I mean, Mr. Fitz—I mean, Attorney Fitzgerald is just through here.”

She knocks quietly at the only door and waits, eyes even brighter than before.

The door swings open.

I might as well not be standing there, because Attorney Fitzgerald doesn’t see me at all. He looks at his paralegal in a way that makes me want to apologize for intruding. She’s looking at him in the same way.

I clear my throat very loudly.

Finally he drags his eyes away from her. “Thank you, Ms. Winter,” he says. He might as well be declaring his love.

I follow him. He sits down at his desk and presses his fingers against his temples. He’s got a small bandage just above his eyebrow and another around his wrist. He looks like an older and more harried version of the picture on his website. The only things that are the same are that he’s white, and his eyes are bright green.

“Sit sit sit sit,” he says, all in one breath. “Sorry for the delay. I had a little accident this morning, but now we don’t have much time, so please, tell me how this all came to pass.”

I’m not sure where to begin. Should I tell this lawyer the entire history? What should I include? I feel like I need to go back in time to explain it all.

Should I tell him about my father’s aborted dreams? Should I tell him that I think dreams never die even when they’re dead? Should I tell him that I suspect my father lives a better life in his head? In that life, he’s renowned and respected. His kids look up to him. His wife wears diamonds and is the envy of men and women alike.

I would like to live in that world too.

I don’t know where to begin, so I start with the night he ruined our lives.

THE THEATER WAS EVEN SMALLER than Peter and I expected. The sign said MAXIMUM CAPACITY: 40 PEOPLE. Tickets were fifteen dollars each, with the proceeds going to cover the rental of the space for two hours on a Wednesday night. The actors weren’t given complimentary tickets for friends and family, so he had to buy three for us.