I nodded again. “Yeah, and then after a while, you forget how to make eye contact too. So that when people try, you can’t do it anymore. Even people you love, your best people. It’s awful.”

“I can imagine that,” said Jasper.

“You know what else? My parents, they even . . .” A few tears rolled free, slid down my cheeks as I glanced at the mantel over the fireplace. I wiped at them quickly. “They even took down his pictures. All of them.”

“Why?”

“I guess they just couldn’t handle seeing him every day. When he wasn’t coming back. I don’t know what they did with the photos, but it’s killing me. I can’t find him anywhere. I can’t . . .” I shook my head.

“What?”

“It’s like I’m starting to forget his face. I close my eyes, and I can’t see him.”

Jasper shook her head. “That’s terrible, Leah. You don’t see a therapist or . . . your rabbi, or anything?”

I shook my head and rubbed my nose. I wasn’t looking at her anymore. I didn’t mind talking about it, but it felt clunky, uncomfortable. I wasn’t sure how to do this.

“We aren’t really Jewish like that,” I said. “We don’t really have a rabbi. And I did see a therapist, for a minute,” I explained. “For a few weeks, at the beginning. But then Mom and Dad went back to work, and the appointments got hard to schedule. Nobody could drive me, and they had a fight—well, like a tense quiet argument, a conversation, about whether I was old enough to take an Uber alone to the therapist’s office. Mom said no and Dad said yes, and I think they just couldn’t handle fighting, so they dropped it, and I got a kitten instead.”

“No!” said Jasper. “A cat? That was their solution? Seriously?”

I nodded, and then I couldn’t help it, I smiled a little. Because it sounded so ridiculous. “Seriously. But it was actually kind of a good thing, because when people don’t talk to you like a normal person anymore, it’s nice to have a kitten. To talk to.”

Jasper looked horrified. “Tell me they didn’t name the kitten after—”

“No!” I said. “Oh, God, no, can you imagine? My parents aren’t that clueless. The kitten is called Mr. Face. He’s a cat now, and he’s fine. Mostly he stays outside. But he’s fuzzy, and he sleeps with me. I love him.”

“Well, kitten or no kitten,” said Jasper, “you should be seeing someone, Leah. You need to see someone.”

“What makes you say that?” I said. “Do you . . . see someone?”

“Not . . . just now,” said Jasper. “But I know about therapists. Trust me. I could tell you some stories. . . .”