Their stomping feet and hostile words would vibrate right up to my room and tickle my heart. It always sounded so bad, like I’d wake up the next morning and Dad would be gone.

But that never happened.

Things would go back to normal by sunrise, as if I’d dreamt the whole thing.

Then there was the day I woke up and Dad was gone. It was two days after my high school graduation—I was yanked out of bed by my mother’s horrified screams that still linger in my mind to this day. He’d passed away in his sleep from a heart attack.

So sudden.

So quick.

So fucking unfair.

My mother never really recovered from the loss and her mental state deteriorated over the next few years. Her memory began to decline at only fifty-two years old, and I always thought to myself, “How horrible it must be to forget the love of your life.”

Now, I can’t help but wonder if it was the only way for her to cope.

Maybe there is no recovering from something like that. Maybe there is no healing or moving on. There is no forgetting.

Not unless you truly forget.

I approach my mother, her light brown hair dappled in silver and cut just above her shoulders. She glances up when I’m standing a few feet away, my hands in my pockets. “You look good, Mom.”

Holly smiles, a warmth washing over her baby blue eyes, almost like she recognizes me. “Randall. I’m so glad you came to visit.”

I try not to take it personally. The doctors all say she can’t help it. My father could be standing here, fresh from his grave, and she’d still be all mixed up. “Mom, it’s Dean. Your son.”

She nods her head. “Come sit.” Holly pats the embroidered quilt beside her, encouraging me to join her. “Frank brought tea. It’s by the front door.”

“Thanks.”

We sit in silence for a moment, my mother’s attention back on the television. She sighs wearily. “It’s such a shame the way those towers fell down. So much fire and destruction. So much loss.” Holly shakes her head from side to side, her eyes glistening as images play out on the screen.

I glance at the TV. It’s a commercial for dish soap.

My fingers weave through my dark hair, recalling the way my mother used to stroke my scalp with her fingertips to alleviate my stress or calm my nerves. I miss that sometimes.

I clear my throat, shifting my weight on the bed. “I know you’re not going to understand what I’m saying, but I think I just needed someone to listen. I went through some pretty crazy stuff a few months ago, and I don’t think I’m handling it very well. I’m confused about a lot of shit. I still have nightmares. It’s taking all my willpower not to drink myself to death. And…” I close my eyes, grinding my teeth. “I think I’m falling in love with the only damn woman in the world who’s completely off limits. I know she feels it, too, which should be great, right? This is the shit people write books about.”