I don’t wake up until Mom creaks down the hallway a little before four a.m., which means it’s almost noon in London. I can’t help myself — I pick up my phone and open my email.

Hey kiddo,

What do you mean, “Was she always like this?” Like what? She and I don’t speak that much anymore. I’m not high on her list, as you know, and I don’t fault her for it — I know how hard it was for you when I moved back to England. That’s why I’d love for you to visit. I miss you more than you can imagine. I know you’d rather saw off your own head than Skype, so I hope you’ll consider visiting so we can talk face-to-face. I really think you’d love London if you gave it a chance.

As for your mum, she’s always had some anxiety, if that’s what you’re asking about, but I thought she had it managed with medication and was doing fine. Can we please talk?

Love you.

No, he doesn’t.

If he did, he would just fucking explain what led to this.

If he did, he would have stayed.

Sunday morning my phone rings on my nightstand, awakening me from a dream I didn’t want to leave. Zoe and I were lying down in a meadow filled with fire-lit flowers — one of the imaginary places I conjured up for her this past week. We lay face-to-face, almost touching. The way she looked at me made me feel like I was drowning in those incredible eyes of hers, but in the dream I didn’t need air. I didn’t need anything except the way she said my name, the way she touched my cheek, the way she let me run a finger along the perfect arch of her eyebrow and down the soft curve of her cheek.

Phone calls can go to hell.

It’s so unusual for anyone to call me that my first thought is that it must be a wrong number, but when I grab it, the display says “Dad.” I drop it back on the floor without answering and press a pillow over my head. The only person I might have answered for is Zoe, even though the mere idea of that fills me with a warm feeling that can only be the symptom of impending nuclear-core meltdown.

A few minutes later I hear another vibration indicating that Dad left a message.

I press the phone to my ear and his voice floods in — the same warm, accented voice that read to me when I was small, everything from Goodnight Moon to A Brief History of Time. Losing that daily routine was one of the hardest parts of my parents’ divorce.