We’re almost there, which means I have to look at it. There’s a reason my brothers and I don’t show up here anymore. This is the place where my mother spread so much joy. And after she died, my father fell apart. He barely spoke to us. I had to drive to Costco before I went back to Vermont and fill the freezer with frozen foods so my brothers wouldn’t starve.

I slow my steps as we reach the front walk. The house looks pretty good now. The A-frame beams have been recently stained, I think. There’s a new metal roof in Heritage Red. The tall, peaked window shines, reflecting the Colorado sky in its panes. And there’s a harvest wreath on the door, decorated with dried corn and wheat sheaves.

But my mother didn’t hang it there. And when that door opens, I’ll expect her to call out to me. Reed? I’m in the kitchen!

And then she won’t.

“Come on,” my dad says gruffly. “Don’t drag your feet, son. Won’t make it easier. I know this is hard.”

This, from a man who wouldn’t even say her name after she died?

The week after her funeral, my father went on a rampage, stripping the house of every single thing that reminded us of my mother. He threw her clothes by the armful out the front door, onto the yard, while my youngest brother locked himself in the bathroom and turned on the shower to drown out his sobs.

My father never said, I know this is hard. He drank instead.

And I’m still so angry.

“My therapist would tell me to give you time,” my dad says. “But I’m afraid you’ll just drive away again.”

“Your therapist?” I’d be less surprised if he hired an exorcist.

“Yeah, her name is Addie. Nice lady.”

I blink.

The front door of my childhood home swings open and the new Mrs. Madigan steps out. She’s a tall, thin woman with greying blonde hair and a big smile. “Welcome, Reed! What a surprise.”

I smile by force of habit. My first thought is at least she’s not twenty-nine. And my next thought is to wonder if she took his name. Melody Madigan is sort of a mouthful, not that I’m going to point that out.

It’s pretty hard to believe that my father is the only Madigan man with a wife. His three sons are all too scarred by our family implosion to ever tie the knot.

“There she is!” my father says with a warm chuckle. “Her cookies are worth the walk, trust me.”

I propel myself toward the door, although I can’t imagine that any cookie is tasty enough to make this less awkward.

Dad steps inside first and carefully removes his shoes.

I’d do the same, except I’m too busy staring at the freshly painted interior. The walls of our open-plan living room are now a warm mustard color, and the furniture is all new. There’s lots of wood and earthy colors. Big red toss pillows on a brown corduroy sofa. A mustard-colored footstool. A leather club chair.