Our old tiny house, with all of its worn upholstered furniture and wallpapered rooms and halls, where Mom had once walked and ate and slept and talked and been . . . where she’d been . . . was perfect if you ask me. But my father didn’t ask me. He sold the house without—you know what, I’m not even about to start.

After a couple of bites, I look over at the opening to the hall that leads to my father’s room. One look, that’s all I’ll allow myself. Sometimes, after I’ve been out here a while, he’ll come out of his room and ask me about the game. And I’ll ask him about the hearts he looked at that day and if he had a surgery. And we’ll actually have something that resembles a conversation.

Okay, one more look, but that’s it. The entry to the hall looks like an empty picture frame. The frame is modern (of course) with a wide, dark wood trim. And inside the frame, there’s a white wall, illuminated by a small recessed light. Doesn’t look like the frame is getting a picture tonight.

I eat my last bit of arepa, wash it down with juice, and carry my dishes to the sink. But before I rinse my dishes and put them in the dishwasher, I lean back against the counter and look at more pictures of Carli on her brother’s IG feed. Her gentle face is the perfect antidote to tonight’s roughness.

I have to give big ups to her little brother. Carli’s social media is on lockdown, but Cole’s is wide open. And he’s a sharer, a big-time sharer. A big-time lover, too. Seems like every few weeks, a new girl takes over his feed. Not completely, though. Carli constantly gets play.

But tonight, Cole’s posted a bazillion pics of their whole family together. Old vacation and family outing photos . . . things like that. And it’s not even throwback Thursday. The gallbladder thing with Carli must really have him thinking about how much he loves his family. How perfect they are. What I would give to know that feeling for even one second.

After finishing my dishes, I head upstairs to my room. But before I reach the landing in the middle of the stairs, where my father’s frame disappears from my line of vision, I turn around and look one more time.

Two minutes later I’m still standing here, staring at nothing.

This is stupid. I’ll go knock on his door. If he doesn’t answer, he doesn’t answer. Wouldn’t be the first time.

I walk back down the stairs and then down the hall that leads to his room. There’s a slit of light underneath his door, and when I get closer I hear the faint sound of the TV. My knuckles are about to hit the door when I stop and think about how much he hates me.