How is your autumn so far? The trees are changing here and it always makes me think of you crashing through piles of leaves like a tiny sozzled bulldozer when you were little. I can hardly believe you’re eighteen, or that almost three years have passed since I last saw you. It’s been far too long, and I miss you so much. Your mother hasn’t been keen on you making a trip to the UK in the past, but I feel you’ve reached the age at which it’s your decision. I have a spare bedroom in my flat with your name on it and there’s a Doctor Who museum in Upton Park which I’ve held off visiting because I’d rather go with you. Won’t you please consider visiting London?

Love,

Dad

What does he mean Mom hasn’t been keen on me visiting? He’s never even invited me. Not that I blame him — I haven’t exactly rolled out the welcome mat for him in the past few years, given how he ditched me. But in spite of that, alongside the usual churning vortex of anger, a tiny spark of hope blooms in my chest.

He wants to see me.

Then I think of Mom, and the spark winks out.

When Will drops me off, I pull up my hood and dash to my front door, drips slapping onto my head. I fumble with the lock until the door creaks open. As usual, the silent interior of my house holds all the warmth and cheer of a mausoleum. I peer into the kitchen. The clock on the stove reads 4:13 in bright-blue numbers that stand out in the dark. It’s four minutes fast, just like every other piece of timekeeping in our house other than our phones, which refuse to obey Mom’s need to be ahead of everyone else. My shoes go into the coat closet beside the door, perfectly lined up, and I flip on the porch light and lock the door before flying up the stairs to my room.

My phone dings with a text notification as I drop my bag, which knocks over a haphazard pile of yellowed paperback sci-fi and fantasy novels next to my bed. The text message can’t be from Will since he’s still driving, so it must be Mom. My stomach drops. If she got stuck late at work or something else threw off her schedule, there’s no telling what the rest of my night will hold. Mom plans her life carefully around routines that are comfortable for her. I plan mine around hers. When those plans go awry, both of us fall apart.

I pull out my phone and nearly drop it in surprise when I see who messaged.

Zoe: Still hoping you’ll change your mind about the painting . . .

Before I can even process the first text, a second one comes through.