“That’s not it.” I was defensive, feeling like a child who had been accused of being selfish yet wasn’t. “I am so sorry this is hard for you. I am. I know you’re trying to say and do the right thing. I just can’t find it in me to believe you. That’s all. It’s not that you don’t give me enough. And it’s not that my life doesn’t look perfect; it does.”

“So what do you want? Really, I think it is perfectly evident what I want. I want you to come home. What do you want?”

“I want the tender pieces of me to survive.”

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

Three words that fell into the room like dynamite.

His hands moved before the lecture began. “Ellie, for God’s sake. You’ve left all of us at home. Your dad. Me. Your friends.” His fist made bullet points in the air as if he were giving a presentation. “You’ve left your responsibilities. I understand you’re grieving about your mother and you miss Lil. But this is called running away. You’re here in the middle of nowhere without any friends.”

“I have friends,” I whispered.

“Who? Your mother’s best friend and an old boyfriend?”

“Stop,” I said.

“Okay, this isn’t going the way I planned.” He rubbed his face and eyes. “I just don’t understand at all. One minute we’re fine and the next you’re weeping over a bird and packing a suitcase and off to Alabama alone in a guesthouse with your old boyfriend. Seriously. What the hell is going on? I want you to come home. I want our life. We’ve worked so hard and made it so far. I understand if you need some time to yourself, but this is long enough. Really, long enough.” He backed away and plopped onto the lounge chair, dropping his head into his hands. “I’ve never seen you like this, and I can’t stand it.”

I walked toward him, slowly.

“You’ve become obsessed with these things of your mother.” He motioned toward the table. “What is this, some kind of midlife crisis—you need to find yourself? Do you know how trite that sounds?”

“I never, ever said, ‘I need to find myself.’ That is not what I said. I said I wanted to know my mother in a new way. And maybe, just maybe, I’d know myself better because of it.”

“Same thing,” he said.

“No, it is not the same thing. Can’t you hear me? Please. I don’t just want you to say all the right stuff and give me things—I want you to hear me.”

“I can hear you perfectly well. You just aren’t making any sense at all.”