He’s not so good at taking care of me when I’m sick. Not because he’s a bad dad, but because Mom always did that. It’s like Dad took care of me when I was in a bad mood or had a bad idea and Mom was always there for all the times when I was sick and needed real taking care of.

He does his best, though, tucking me into bed and leaving a big glass of water on the nightstand. It’s not dark yet, but he shuts all my blinds and sets up his laptop so I can watch whatever I want.

As I’m lying there, I hear Dad let Mom in the front door. I turn down the volume on my show to hear what they’re saying.

“Where is she?” my mom asks in a rush.

“She’s lying down. She’s fine, Liz.”

“I can take her for the night. I don’t mind.”

“Let me do this,” says Dad firmly but nicely.

Mom pauses for a moment. “In front of the whole party? She threw up in front of everyone?”

“More like she threw up on everyone. Poor kid.”

“What was she even doing at Kiera’s party in the first place?” She doesn’t bother hiding the blame in her voice. “You knew they’d grown apart. And honestly, after the way Nate treated you when you told him about the divorce and . . . you . . . Andre, honestly, it’s no better than sending her into the lion’s den.”

“I don’t know, Liz. It’s not Kiera’s fault that her father’s a homophobe. And I thought maybe she and Sweet Pea had made up. Stranger things have happened.” He pauses for a moment. “They don’t really cover this in all your parenting books, you know. There’s no chapter on ‘I’ve just told my daughter I’m gay and am attempting to navigate her social food chain while maintaining my own sanity.’”

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. And it’s hard for me not to imagine Mom reaching over and taking Dad’s hand. I know everything has changed for them, but how do you just turn it off? How do you just stop loving someone? Mom and Dad weren’t just Mom and Dad. They were best friends too.

My doorknob moves, and I freeze, making the split-second decision to close my eyes and pretend to be asleep. Sometimes it’s just easier to pretend.

I can’t see her, but I can sense my mother’s presence as she walks across my bedroom. I wonder how this house feels to her. I wish I could see it through her eyes. Does she see all the ways it’s a sad dupe for our real home?

She leans over me and closes the laptop before pressing her lips to my forehead. “I’ll see you tomorrow, baby.”

When the door closes again, I open my eyes to find it totally dark. The sun has set, and without the light of the laptop, it’s just me and the intensely embarrassing memory of this afternoon. I wish Cheese was here.