“You got everything from your mom,” my father continues. “The only thing you got from me was height and a little color. None of my personality, thankfully. Your mom was super passionate, like you. About life, about art . . . all kinds of art. And she loved trees. I mean, she really loved trees.”

I always knew Mom loved trees. Well, I didn’t know-know. It was the version of her I made up from this one picture I used to love. I start sliding photo off of photo, trying to find it. Here it is: Mom sitting crisscross in the grass in a grove of live oaks. Looking at her, looking up at the trees, I get the same feeling as when I’m lying in the woods behind the house, looking up at the crowns of the tall pines. It’s the closest I ever get to peace.

“That’s why I moved us out here to live among all these trees,” my father says, walking closer to the sliding glass door. He interlaces his fingers behind his back and stares out at the hazy forest. “I thought waking up surrounded by trees every day would make you happy.”

The subject of moving takes me right back to being pissed. “I was happy around Mom’s old things. In the house she used to live in,” I yell, stepping toward him. “I used to imagine her walking through the rooms. I used to imagine her sitting on our old sofa and cooking in our old pots and pans. That made me happy. This house is empty and sad. You didn’t keep anything of hers. It’s like you wanted to get rid of her,” I say.

He turns around to face me. “No, no, no. I would never want to get rid of your mom. I love her. Always. My therapist thought it was critical that I move out.”

“Your therapist?”

“Yes, he’s been imploring me to move for years and years, and then something happened that made me listen.”

“But you didn’t even ask me first,” I say, wondering what happened.

“I know. I’m sorry. I was in a really bad place. And I needed to get out quickly. Every second in that house brought back memories. Trust me, I would’ve stayed with those memories forever. But,” he says, looking at me, “I had to keep living. I had to keep living for you.”

Keep living? For a second my insides go black. Everything disappears, and I imagine being all alone in this world. Was he thinking about killing himself? Is that what happened? Even though he hasn’t been there for me, the thought of losing another parent is unbearable.

“But I’m here. And I’m much, much better. And I promise to do better from here on out,” he says, and reaches for me.