Shit.

“Hi, Mom,” she said in a forcibly bright voice.

“Hi, sweetie. How are you doing? I haven’t heard from you since you got to the cabin.”

“I texted you.”

“You know how I feel about texting. So? How is it? Did they clean it for you?”

Cleaned. What her mother really meant was “has the company we hired removed all signs and smells that might suggest a man had died in this house alone in a chair with his beer and his pipe?”

“It’s fine.”

“What about those horrible hunting trophies?”

She glanced at the deer head mounted on the wall in front of her, then flopped into an armchair. “They’re still here.”

“Maybe you can sell them on eBay.”

“Mom.”

“I’m just saying you don’t have to surround yourself with dead things. You know I worry about you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you taking your meds?”

“Mom. I’m thirty years old.”

“And only a month out of treatment.”

“Do you want me to hang up on you?”

Silence filled the line. Emilia tugged on the frayed edges of the hole in the knee of her jeans. Yes, she was only a month out of Morse Hill’s residential program, but they’d deemed her fit to return to society and normal human activities. She was fine. Maybe if she repeated that often enough people would believe her.

“Well, at least you have Nell with you.”

“She’s doing the thing where she lies on top of her own head on the couch.”

“Silly dog. Oh, Anna Maria told me to tell you to stop ignoring her texts.”

She pulled a thread all the way out and let it fall to the scuffed hardwood floor. Ignoring her stepsister wasn’t intentional. She just didn’t know what to say. Anna Maria hadn’t known her dad, so Emilia’s grief was foreign to her, opening up a rift that had been barely noticeable while they were growing up.

“I’ll talk to her.”

“Good. She wants to visit you.”

“You mean she wants to get away from her children.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“You’re not my therapist.” She didn’t mean to snap, but she wished her mother could understand how much effort it took for her to do even as little as she was managing. There wasn’t any effort left over for patience.

“Emmy.”

“Sorry. It’s the paint. There are too many choices.”

“You’re painting? You’ve only been there a few days.”

“You never liked how dark Dad’s house was.”

“And he liked it because it hid the dirt.”

“Did you know Dad did open mic at the new coffee shop in town?”

More silence. “No. I did not know that.”

“It was weird. The coffee shop people knew who he was.”

“I forget how small that town is. Any familiar faces?”

“Nope,” Emilia said, thinking of Morgan.

“Don’t be afraid to make friends.”

Emilia pinched herself to keep a rein on her frustration and decided to feed her mother a few scraps to get her off her back. “Actually, I have met a few people.”