“Oh yeah. Walter Hood is something special, isn’t he? The Street Trees he’s doing in Detroit and the W.E.B. DuBois Double Garden installation he did with Carrie Mae Weems are amazing,” he says, and walks over toward my bookshelf.

Why is this man trying to act like he knows about Walter Hood?

“Your mom and I saw his installation at the Project Row House here in Houston when she was pregnant with you.” He grabs the next record off the top of the stack—“What’s Going On” by Marvin Gaye. Slides it out of its sleeve. “Do you mind?” he asks, his long fingers already lifting the needle to switch out the records.

Is he serious? This man is in my room, acting like he’s been in here a thousand times. Over there casually mentioning Mom like we’ve had a million conversations about her. He never once talked about Mom! Never shared any stories about her. About what she was like. What they did. Where they went. Or what happened back when. Never! “Yes, I mind!” I shout.

“I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry,” he says, gently places the needle back down, and slides “What’s Going On” back into its sleeve.

“Sorry for what exactly?” I yell, standing to my feet with my fists balled up.

He turns to face me. “Sorry for—”

“For what?” I walk toward him, anger spewing out of me. It feels like a pipe—rusted, corroded, and under the pressure of being clogged for sixteen years—finally broke deep inside me. “Coming up in here acting all familiar? Or sorry for ignoring me all these years? For never being here?”

He looks up at me. He’s tall, but I still have him by a couple inches. “Yes, for everything I—”

“Sixteen years! Sixteen years of leaving me on my own,” I interrupt, screaming three inches from his face. “You know, I lost Mom, too. Actually, I never even had her. And I didn’t have a father, either.” Specks of spit fly out of my mouth, but I don’t give a damn. “No, even worse. I had a father who didn’t want me. Who hated me. Didn’t you know how much I already hated myself! I killed my own fucking mom! I’ve had to live with that!” Hot tears are streaming down my face and I don’t try to hold them back.

“Oh no. Is that what you think?” he says, and reaches out to me.

I block his arms and step back. “Man, get off me.”

“Rex,” he says. “You have to know, it’s not your fault,” his voice soft and calm.

It’s how he always talks, but right now it’s on my goddamn nerves. “You can lose the bedside manner. I’m not one of your patients.”

“You were only a baby. It’s not your fault.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You can save all that.”