The phone rings and I start to snatch it up, then slow my hand when I realize the single word that is in my head—Jackson.

But it’s not him who is calling. It’s Ethan.

“Hey,” he says. “Have you seen Dad yet?”

“Not yet,” I say. “I’m going in about an hour. You’re coming up tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I’m supposed to see him at noon. Let him know, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Listen, has Mom called you?”

I frown. “No.” To say that my mother and I have a strained relationship is like saying that black is a dark color. It’s just a flat-out given. I’ve been a non-entity to her for years, and I don’t even know if she’s aware of what happened to me—of what her husband did to her daughter. She pretty much wrote me off, all of her attention going toward my brother, leaving me to basically fend for myself. But considering what I know of my parents, maybe that was best.

“Dammit, I told her she should. I mean, our dad’s in jail. Isn’t that what moms do?”

Not our mom, I think. But all I say is, “So what did she say?”

“She asked me why she should.”

I sigh. I’m not entirely sure why he’s telling me this. God knows nothing has changed.

“I just—she screwed up, Syl. They both have. But that doesn’t mean you will.”

I lick my lips, but I don’t say anything. I don’t want to talk about this, and I’m regretting even telling him in my message that I’d left Jackson and Ronnie.

“I know we’ve grown up saying that we’re not going to have kids because it’s just a goddamn vicious cycle, but it doesn’t have to be. You can stop it.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” I say.

“You know what I mean.”

I do, but I don’t want to talk about it. “Listen, I need to get dressed.”

“Shit, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s okay,” I say quickly.

“No,” he says firmly, “it’s not. Listen, I’ve been thinking. And the thing is that you love him.”

“Ethan, please.” My voice is cracking with my words.

“Dammit, Syl, hear me out. You think you can’t be a mom. You think you don’t have a role model. But you do. Don’t you get it? You’re your role model.”

I run my fingers through my hair, feeling too ripped up inside to try and figure out what he’s talking about. “Ethan—”

“You are. I mean, if parenting is about taking care of someone—about being willing to sacrifice for them and make really hard choices—well, then you already know how to do that. Don’t you get it, Syl? You did that for me already.”

I suck in a breath, his words surprising me and making tears spring to my eyes.

“You were as much a parent to me growing up as they ever were. Maybe more. I’m sorry if I’ve made it harder for you. Made you doubt. I shouldn’t have. Because you can do it, Syl. I promise you—you already know how.”

“I—” I can’t talk through the tears. I sniff and try to breathe, and then manage to tell him that I have to go. Because I can’t handle what he’s saying right now. I can’t process if it’s true or not, because it’s just too much. Too big. “I’m sorry,” I add. “But I have a scheduled time to meet with him.”

I hang up without waiting for him to say goodbye.

Could he be right? I want to believe it, but I’m still scared. And with a little girl’s life at the heart of it, I can’t run the risk of being wrong.

Two hours later, I’m sitting in the private visitors’ room at the county jail where my dad is being held. It’s stark and cold and as much as I hate my dad for what he did to me, I can’t stand the thought of him living in a room like this for the rest of his life.

The door opens and my father is brought in, his hands in cuffs, his body dressed in an orange jumpsuit.

I rise and start to go to him.

“No touching,” the uniformed guard says, and I realize that I’d been about to hug my father, something I haven’t done since I was thirteen years old.

“Oh,” I say. “Right.”

“I’ll be outside,” he says. “I can’t hear you, but if you need anything you signal me.”

I nod, and then I take a seat at the table as my father sits opposite. The officer unfastens one handcuff, then refastens it to a bolt on the table. Then he turns, leaves the room, and shuts it with a final-sounding click behind him.