I open my bedroom door and close it behind me, leaning against the comfort of the solid wood. My room is brighter than the rest of the house. Deb painted the wood panels a soft dove gray. A purple bedspread and floral prints above the headboard give everything a light, girly feel. Silver-shaded lamps sit on white shabby-chic nightstands. It’s the kind of room meant to appeal to any foster girls passing through.

I hate it.

Deb can tell. I don’t know how. I’ve never said anything, but she offered to take me shopping for a new bedspread more my style. I said no. I don’t like gifts.

I cross the room and plop sideways on my bed.

Mom pushes into my mind again. I needed Parker tonight. I needed a distraction, but I don’t want to tell him why. I doubt he knows that this week is the anniversary of her death. She died when I was eight, just before Parker turned three. Dad died not long before I turned six, and I only have blurry memories of him that blend together. Parker doesn’t have any memories of them at all.

I focus on Dad anyway. It’s weird that the safer parent to think about is the one who died in a mugging gone bad, but I was so little that I don’t really remember that moment. I only remember the before and the after. Before, I would stand on the side of a small stage at a little club or community theater, holding the hand of a babysitter while I stared open-mouthed at Mom and Dad on the stage making rabbits and birds and cats appear from top hats or from behind sparkling curtains. Dad wore a red vest made of sequins over a billowy white shirt. Mom wore red silk over a rounded stomach that held Parker. She always wore fresh red roses in her hair. I don’t really remember anything else about Dad besides those nights on the side of a stage.

After, we had a trailer, and we moved around even more, and Mom was a little bit different, like a fancy dress missing the sequins it once had. She didn’t talk about Dad very much.