The door unlocks, whining open on old hinges. On the other side, my father blinks at me. His beer gut has grown since the last time I saw him and his t-shirt is stained, probably with motor oil or whatever he ate for dinner. I can already tell by how his eyes are bloodshot that he’s been drinking. It takes a moment for him to recognize me.

“Christ,” he says, opening the door wider.

At the kitchen table, my father fills two mugs of coffee and splashes some bourbon in his. He offers some to me, but I shake my head. There are unwashed dishes in the sink. The dishtowel is caked with crusty food. He sits down in the chair beside me, his knees creaking. “Believe me,” he says. “I’d help if I could. But they finally caught onto my little disability racket. Checks stopped shown’ up last month.”

The lines on my father’s face are worn. He’s been drinking more and more since my mother’s death. I look down, studying an ant trespassing across the kitchen table. “I’m surprised to see you,” he says. “Usually it’s your brother showin’ up here, looking’ for a handout. Half the time he looks so strung out I…Goddamn waste. He was always so smart.”

“I’m not here for money,” I reply.

“Oh,” he says. My father tries to focus on my face. “How’s school?” he says. “You still taking care of yourself?”

I shake my head. “I stopped going to classes. And no, I’m not taking the pills.”

“Why’d the hell you do that?” His voice booms in the messy kitchen.

“I don’t know. Maybe I didn’t have the best role models growing up?” I sit back. “Look, I don’t want to get into it. I just came to ask a question.” I meet his gaze. “About Mom.”

My father blinks. He puts his mug of coffee and bourbon down.

I follow my father up the rickety stairs and down the hall. We both don’t like talking about my mother, and I feel like her spirit lingers in each and every corner of this house, which doesn’t make being here any easier.

In his bedroom, my father bends down and rummages through an old dresser, digging out a dented coffee can from a drawer full of socks. He pops open the cap, revealing a wad of bills. There’s maybe a couple fives and some crinkled ones.

“All I got left for the month. I want you to have it.”

I shake my head, but he grabs my hand and folds the money in my palm.

“You need to handle this.” His voice strains as he looks at me.

“I’m not taking the last of your cash.”

“Goddamn it, Ange.”

I place the money on the dresser. “I’ll figure something out.”