We settle at a table that overlooks the gardens, which are bright with orange and yellow mums. A girl in a wheelchair sits at a neighboring table, a cheerful middle-aged man feeding her chocolate ice cream. She smiles a lot and sometimes squeals. I think he’s her father, based on his comfort with her and the way she gazes at him, and my throat tightens. There is something about this kind of love, this kind of situation, that is so particular, so piercing. Other families have survived this. Can we? Everything here seems so nice, so festive and warm and cheerful, and I feel a surge of something like hope.

Still, saying goodbye to Jonah back at the apartment is agonizing. More of Jonah’s apartment mates are here now, and it’s much louder and more frenetic. One of the residents is upset — he cries and slaps at the kitchen counter. Delores tries to calm him as a male staff member repeatedly tells him he needs to stop hitting, he needs to settle down.

My parents exchange glances. Delores leaves the boy to the other staff person and comes over to smooth our goodbye so we don’t have to just leave Jonah standing alone in our wake. We hug Jonah and tell him we’ll see him soon. We struggle to be positive, but my dad . . . If I could choose something to never have to see again in my life, the way my father’s face looks when he’s bravely trying not to cry would be high on the list. And it brings back a memory I’d give anything to erase, from when my mom was in the hospital. My dad and I were struggling, trying to manage Jonah and get through the daily routines without her, and it was impossible, literally impossible, and there was a moment when he just . . . lost it. I had seen my dad moved to tears before, but I’d never seen him all-out crying because he was upset. He stood in the kitchen, having burned dinner while tending to Jonah’s bathroom needs. The smoke detector was going off, but he just stood there, crying like a little boy, his sobs full and loud, arms hanging at his sides.