“Ever . . .” He puts his hands on my shoulder. “The thing I’ve been trying to tell you . . . the reason why I wanted you to come here for Thanksgiving last year, is because I’m seeing someone.”

Silence engulfs us. I have no idea how I feel about what he’s just told me. A part of me is angry. How dare he get over Mom? How dare he date? Is he having actual sex with another woman? What in the hell? This is wrong. This is Mom’s house, with Mom’s things. It feels deeply unjust that someone else is taking care of her garden. Of her family.

But then I also can’t help but feel an acute sense of relief. Because he wasn’t alone all this time. Because he did have a shoulder to cry on, even if it wasn’t mine. Because it takes a lot of courage to move on from losing the love of your life. And because ultimately, I want him to be happy. Mom would want him to be happy.

It’s also difficult for me to pass judgment on other people in my situation. I slept with Joe while still wearing Dom’s engagement ring.

“Please say something.” Dad actually cringes, taking a step back. “Anything.”

“I . . . I don’t know how I feel about this,” I admit. “Does she sleep in Mom’s bed?”

His face says it all. She does. She sleeps in Mom’s bed. Okay. Okay. I take a deep breath. Count to ten in my head. Remind myself that perfect doesn’t exist. That I, myself, slept with Joe and then bailed on him. That humans are deeply flawed creatures. That maybe what matters is that we are not malicious. That we don’t want to hurt others. I know Dad did not move on because he wanted to hurt me.

“Are you happy with her?” I ask quietly.

He looks down at his shoes, thinking about it.

“I’m less unhappy when I’m with her,” he says, finally. And this, of course, is exactly how I felt about Dom. The soothing notion that there was someone to take the pain away. Is Dad’s girlfriend like Dom? Is his love for her guarded, comfortable, never coloring out of the lines? I don’t dare ask him.

“Is she . . .” I’m trying to think of what I want to ask—pretty? Nice? Funny? Artistic? Eccentric? Mom-ish? Is she an entire bursting world? Complete with a northern English accent and a collection of Oasis and Smiths CDs?

Dad continues to stare like I’m holding the secrets of the universe in my palm and he really, really needs them to save the world right now.

“Complete the sentence,” he asks firmly.

“I guess what I’m trying to ask is . . . will I like her?” I gulp.