“That’s great.” I tried, and failed, to sound like I meant it. My stepfather, Rick, and I weren’t exactly poker buddies. We had never gotten along. I was sure he would have greatly preferred if I didn’t exist. But he made my mom happy—mostly, at least—which was what ultimately mattered to me.

“How’s school?”

I avoided her eyes, pretending to be suddenly fascinated by the label of my drink. “It’s going.”

“How’s hockey?”

“Good.” She would know more if she ever came to my games. They lived roughly an hour away and hadn’t made it to one of my games since my freshman year. I wasn’t asking for every weekend, but once or twice a season would be nice. Sometimes our away games were even closer—but still, nothing.

Maybe it reminded her too much of my father.

“You know, it’ll be ten years in April,” she said, like she was reading my mind.

My throat tightened. “I know.” Well aware that my dad has been dead for a decade, Mom. Did she think I’d forget?

There was a weighty pause.

“Would you like to do something to commemorate the date? I could fly Sera down for the weekend…” She trailed off.

Would I? Honestly, not really. Did that make me a bad person? I wasn’t sure.

I always remembered April twenty-first—I just did it in my own way, which started with getting obliterated the night before. The timing worked out well because exams were usually wrapping up and everyone else was looking for an excuse to party. It was a win-win: numb the pain for the evening and feel too sick the following day to function, let alone have feelings.

My coping skills were top-notch.

“We could do a small memorial service for him,” she added. “Plant a tree in his memory.”

This tree suggestion was so left field for her. Although she was making an effort, which was a nice change of pace. But we weren’t a touchy-feely family by any stretch; we barely celebrated birthdays. Maybe she was back in counseling—the idea had therapist written all over it.

“I’m good with whatever you two decide. It would be nice to see Sera if she can get away.” Though I strongly doubted my sister would want to fly in from Arizona to stick a twig in the dirt.

She patted my hand on top of the too-small table. “It’s important to talk about him and remember him, you know.”

I stiffened and clenched the to-go cup, the cardboard collapsing slightly beneath my grip. Drawing in a breath, I tried to quell the irritation brewing in my gut.

“I know. I do.” I remembered him fine.