I have a huge amount of anxiety surrounding what I’m about to say next, but I need some input from someone who knows her. “Dad… do you ever feel like maybe there are things about Mom that you don’t know?” As soon as the words are out, I close my eyes, my body tense.

A crash comes on the other side of the line. Now wailing. “Chloe? Can you get…? Thanks.” His voice comes back to me. “I know your mother struggles with being open emotionally. Her family is a big part of that. She never told me the full story, and we were together for nearly two decades.”

My mom not being open is one of the recurring arguments that had swirled through our Brooklyn apartment for years. I am not going down that rabbit hole, not with my dad. “Got it. We’ll talk later,” I say quickly. “Sounds like the kids need help.”

“I’m fine to talk—” But then there’s another crash and he sighs. “I’m sorry, Willow. Are you okay?”

For a moment I allow myself to wonder, am I okay? But nothing good has ever come of me wondering that, so I force the thought away.

“I’m fine,” I say. And I am fine. Sort of. I mean, yes, my life sometimes feels like one of those before-and-after home-renovation projects you see on HGTV. There’s the before, with the avocado shag carpet and the weird glittery popcorn ceilings, that’s me—and then there’s the after, which is the new houses and the new jobs and the new families, all tidy and photogenic. And it’s okay. It’s just that sometimes it’s hard to be the only one who misses or who even really seems to remember the before, but things change. I have to change with them.

“I’m fine,” I say again, firmly this time.

“You sure?”

I look up at the moon. It’s bright white and just shy of full. Suddenly my limbs feel heavy. “I—”

“JUNE, GET DOWN FROM THERE. Okay. Well, let’s talk soon. I’ll call in a few days?”

“Sure.” I’m starting to get that desperate feeling I always get at the end of our phone calls. I want to ask him more questions, like, did he know Mom changed her name? Does he know her story about her hostess mom was a lie? “Hey, Dad—”

But he’s already hung up.

A big achy expanse of lonely pools up inside of me. I try to ignore it, the way I usually do, freeze the ocean waves rolling and churning inside of me, but this time it doesn’t work. My dad is in Australia with his family. I’m here with my mother, getting a tiny peek at her life while she continues to shut me out. Once again, I don’t belong.