“I bet Syd would adore her.” Using the kids as pawns was usually off-limits, but ever since her diagnosis, Sydney got what Sydney wanted. When you didn’t know if it was your child’s last day on earth, you tended to overcompensate.

“I bet Syd would prefer quality time with her mother over a furry surrogate.” When Oliver hit, he made sure it hurt.

“Now you’re just being cruel.”

“Felicity”—Oliver sucked in a breath, then continued—“wake the hell up! Your actions affect the rest of us.”

“I’m not saying they don’t, but I don’t understand why you’re all worked up right now.”

“You almost died in that car accident. And now you’re late getting home, not bothering to even answer your phone. I tried calling you a dozen times, and I would have driven around looking for you if Sydney wasn’t napping. After you nearly got run off a freakin’ cliff, you can’t just go MIA. Don’t you understand that I worry about you?”

“I…I don’t know what to say, Ollie. I appreciate your concern, but you can’t micromanage every minute of my day.”

“It’s more than that. You leave me to handle the kids while you self-medicate, or take secret late-night trips with Cody. And all that time you spend on social media and online support groups, or hiding in Vera’s room searching for clues that aren’t there. It’s not fair to me, or the kids, to be gone ninety-five percent of the time, then come home with a puppy as if that will fill the hole in your kids’ hearts while I’m forced to pick up all the pieces.”

It wasn’t true. None of this was true. I was there for my children. I was making snacks and cleaning up messes and tucking them in bed. How dare he say I wasn’t present?

“You have no right! No right to tell me how to feel or act! You think I’m a mess? Well, I should be a mess! And why aren’t you? Fifteen years we’ve dedicated every part of our lives to Vera, and you’re just going to give up on her after six months? Forget her as if she never existed? No, you’re the broken one, not me. I’ve lost one daughter, and I’m faced with the possibility of losing another, so I think I’m allowed to grieve in my own way, in my own time, Oliver.”

Amid my screaming I didn’t notice the tiny figure standing at the door. The watery eyes watching us, the young mind absorbing all of this, piecing it together like one of his 300-piece LEGO sets.

“Is Syd going to die?”

Oliver spun around. I rushed toward the porch.