I walk into the living room. With the blinds closed and lights off, the apartment is dark and uninviting, with a mustiness that tickles the inside of my nose. I turn on the light by Dad’s recliner, thankful for the yellow fingertips of illumination stretching into the room. When I was nine years old, I fell off my bike and landed on rocks that jabbed into the soft parts of my knee and scraped my skin bloody. Dad was there and he picked me up and held me until I stopped crying. He always makes me feel safe, even when everything around us is falling apart.

His heavy flannel, the one with green and blue stripes and a padded inside, lies across the arm of his chair. I pick it up, bring it to my nose, and inhale layers of oak and pine, grease and sweat. Dad’s scent. I slide my arms through and pull it closed, sit down in his chair.

A photo album lies on the table beside his chair, one I don’t recall ever seeing before. The first picture is of me as a baby, asleep across my mom’s chest. She stares down at me, a tender look that pushes her lips out, like she’s about to kiss my head. Every page is a photo of me, and most are labeled in her handwriting. First crawl, first walk, first tooth, and up through my birthdays. One of my parents hiking with me as an infant strapped to my mother’s back, Dad standing beside her with his arm around us both. The next one by a campfire: I’m four or five, and Mom holds me on her lap, kissing my cheek. Then come the older ones. Me standing next to my science-fair project in fifth grade: the volcano that never erupted. Another with Tate in a too-big tuxedo and me in a too-long pink organza formal dress. Mom’s handwriting underneath: Claire and Tate Prom. My hand hovers over the picture. Is this Mom’s photo album? Did Dad send her pictures during that time? I pull at the ends of my hair, thinking about Dad reaching out to her, keeping her involved, when he had every right to cut her loose. I close the album, hold it tight. He loved her.

And Mom. Keeping all these photos. For a moment I soften, think of how her addiction has ruined her life. Then my hands curl into fists. She looked so happy in the photos. Our family looked so happy. Why did she have to ruin everything?

I lay my head back, feeling the exhaustion of a day I can’t remember in the stiffness of my bones, the dryness of my eyes, and I snuggle deeper into his shirt, feel my eyelids grow heavy, and with a sweet relief, I let them close.