But that’s why I’m dressed in one of my favorite outfits. A red skirt that flares out to my knees, and a shirt with red and purple flowers, topped with a bright yellow cardigan. Some may call it “kindergarten teacher chic,” but I know what it is to me: a slight pop of color in a world full of beige.

Sometimes, when I pass another visitor in the hallway here and give them a quick smile, I think about what their lives are like. They might be my age. They might be slightly older and bringing their small child along to visit a grandparent. They might look happy or sad or distracted. No matter what, I remind myself that this person could very well be having one of the worst days of their life. It’s easy to slide into the monotony of visiting my dad—these hallways, his room that’s always about three degrees too warm, the sitcoms he watches—and forget about why we’re really here. But when it hits, the realization that my dad is gradually losing all his memories, things like who called him on the phone this morning or how to turn on the TV or who his daughter’s dating . . . well, then. That’s the part that really stings.

I know that everyone I pass in the hallway is having that same realization, even if it’s not at this exact moment. And any person I pass on the street, or anyone I talk to on the phone, or any customer who comes into Nick’s could be dealing with something as bad or worse. That’s why it doesn’t bother me when people are rude or snappy or downright insulting; I tell myself, silently, that they’re having the worst day of their life, and I let myself be perhaps the only happy thing they’ll see all day.

That’s why I believe in bright colors, and cute hairdos, and elaborate baked goods, and cheerful music. Because it all counts. In a world that’s often hard and cold and cruel, the tiny bits of warmth and kindness matter, too.

So I paste a smile on my face and knock on Dad’s door. Sometimes it might feel like I’m drowning, but I’m still going to furiously tread water as long as I can.

Chapter Ten

Nick is always in the shop—except for Tuesday nights. On Tuesdays, we all expect him to walk out with a wave around six, and I’ve learned to stop asking where he’s going. At first I used to joke about it. “Oh, off to spin class, are we?”

But then I started thinking about how little I know about Nick, and how he could be going to something really serious. I mean, what if he’s in a twelve-step program, or what if he has a weekly therapist appointment? Or, what if he’s meeting a stranger for hot sex every Tuesday night at six? It’s not my problem.