I must make a sound, because Ruth reaches out, grabs hold of my arms. “I’m so sorry, Claire.”

I know what I’m seeing. Pictures, flowers, people crying. A memorial. The shifting ground scatters my thoughts, and I clutch at the doorframe, desperate to evoke a memory, no matter how faint, of Dad from today or yesterday or—

A woman appears from behind me, and my chest hurts like I’ve been stabbed.

Mom.

She’s older, brown hair threaded with gray, skin forked in lines that span out from her eyes, down her cheeks. Heavy drinking will do that to a person—peel away all the good stuff, show the wear in their skin and eyes. Except her eyes look clear and still beautiful. Sober, perhaps. My heart hardens.

He’s dead and she’s alive.

I stumble backward, bump into something small, and hear a crunch. A young girl sprawls on the floor beside me, and her bottom lip trembles. Under my foot is a pair of black glasses, the frames broken in half.

“Claire!” Ruth calls.

I turn away and am heading to the elevators, heart thumping in my ears, when a hand touches my elbow. “Claire.” Ruth again, and her voice is a calm breeze in the storm inside my head.

This time I stop, let my head hang. “I don’t want him to be gone,” I whisper.

“I know,” she says. “None of us do.”

“Why didn’t I know?” I say through my teeth.

“You’ve been trying to remember. It just upsets you every time. I was going to come and get you, but, well, little Maree brought you instead.” I can hear a softness in her voice when she says the name, see her attention turn to the girl. “And that’s okay, Maree; you did nothing wrong.”

“Claire.” My mother’s voice. I clench my hands. “Join us,” she says.

“Why is she here?” I am overcome by an anger I know isn’t fair or right, but it spreads through my body like an infection. “She’s the one who broke his heart.”

Nobody speaks and the silence lengthens. Mom stands with her feet planted, eyes clear, and it occurs to me that she is not drunk. The thought turns me into a little girl. The one who woke up hopeful every morning that this was the day she’d choose me over alcohol. Her head tilts to the side, and I can see that she wants to say something, and it shatters my illusion because I know that Mom never chooses anyone over alcohol. Ever.