I close my eyes for a moment and let those words sink in. I’m here for you. It’s hard, but I let myself believe them, let myself accept that I might not be the only one handling Dad’s bad days. Milo will be here. It’s like Annie said: maybe I need to let people in.

“Um,” Milo says, and I open my eyes. He looks at me warily. “Are we having an impromptu meditation session?”

“Nope.” I smile. “I’m glad you’re here. Do you need a ride?”

“Actually.” Milo stands up and grins. “I drove here.”

My mouth falls open.

He holds out his hands in a giant shrug. “I know, I know. It’s like, ‘Who does he think he is? A self-sufficient adult?’”

“But you don’t have a car.”

“I borrowed Mikey’s delivery car,” Milo mutters. “My point still stands.”

“You obtained a temporary vehicle.” I pat him on the shoulder. “This is progress.”

“Don’t condescend to me.” Milo points a finger at me. “Things are changing. This is the new Milo. The one who can handle himself, the one who . . .” He pats the pockets of his denim jacket. “Oh, shit. I think I left the keys in Dad’s room.”

I snort-laugh as he runs inside. Sure, it’s great that things are changing, but it’s also kind of nice that some things will stay the same.

* * *

When Milo leaves, I head back to Dad’s room. I knock on the door, then walk in to find him sitting in his recliner, a crossword puzzle book on his lap.

“Well, hi there, sweetheart,” he says, pushing himself off the recliner with some effort. “I didn’t know you were coming over!”

I don’t tell him that I reminded him about this appointment last night and this morning and put it on his calendar. I know it won’t help him.

“I’m here to take you to the doctor for your follow-up appointment,” I say. “Are you ready?”

He shuffles toward his closet. “Just let me get my coat.”

I check the clock on his wall. I left us plenty of time, but my unexpected Milo encounter means we’re probably going to be late. “Hurry up, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he says, his voice muffled as he searches through his closet. I can’t help but smile because, for this moment at least, he sounds the way he used to—full of good-natured annoyance when I tell him what to do.

“So how are things going with Dave?” he asks, then shuffles back toward me, attempting to button a shirt that looks almost exactly like the one he had on before.

“Let me.” I reach out and start buttoning his shirt for him, biting my lip. It’s not like I thought he’d remember what happened when Nick was here. But it still hurts to know that I couldn’t possibly talk to him about everything with Nick, even if I wanted to have one of those traditional movie-worthy father-daughter heart-to-hearts. This is yet another thing his disease took from us, and it sucks.