I think about visiting him for Christmas and picture Mom wrestling the tree onto the roof of the car by herself, then heaving it into the driveway, where she’ll have to wash it at least four times to remove imaginary contaminants before bringing it into the house.

“I’m not sure Mom can manage Christmas by herself,” I say.

“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind letting me have you for the holidays just this once,” he says, completely missing the point. “We used to trade off when I still lived in the States.”

As if I could forget. Christmas at his place was always the opposite of Mom’s. Mom can barely stand the disorder that comes with opening gifts, but Dad and I used to leave shredded wrapping paper on the floor all day until we used it to get a fire going in the evening. Then we’d make s’mores and end up sticky with marshmallow and chocolate. He always caught his on fire and then pretended he liked them all charcoally like that.

“Things are different now,” I say. “Holidays are nothing like when you were here.” I feel a little guilty, like I’m betraying Mom’s confidence by telling him.

“What do you mean?” he asks, sounding genuinely baffled.

“Her OCD,” I say. “It’ll disrupt everything if I leave. She’ll fall apart.” I explain how Mom is now. I tell him about her routines and about how I don’t know how I’m going to be able to leave for a visit, much less college. I tell him how isolated I am, that I don’t feel like I can make new friends, because what if they find out about Mom and don’t understand? I tell him I don’t know how much longer I can live my life this way, but that I also feel like I can’t escape.

“Oh, Sammy — why didn’t you say something?” he asks, his voice full of concern. “I’m so sorry. Do you want me to speak to your mum? If there’s anything I can do to help, I will.”

“No, not right now. I think I have to talk to her about it myself first.” Even if he could effectively intervene, which I know he can’t, I don’t think I want him to. I need to talk to Mom on my own, because I need to figure out how to deal with humans, even her.

“All right, but if you need me, I’m here,” he says. “It sounds like you’ve been dealing with too much on your own for a very long time.”

“Okay,” I say, my voice small. He’s right.

“You always were so independent and brave.” There’s a smile in his voice, and I can perfectly picture the glimmer in his hazel eyes.