By contrast, Corrine’s bathroom is so bright and white it’s almost blinding. The only plant that lives here is a succulent that she should really move to a room with a window. The towels are folded so crisply they look like they’re overstarched but they’re actually so soft I rub one against my cheek as I dry my hands. A subtly scented candle burns on the countertop.

This bathroom has a 401(k) and a timeshare on Cape Hatteras. Meanwhile, last week I hit up my head chef to get us on a reality show so I can make sure we pay rent this month.

My father’s booming voice cuts through the peace of this bathroom turned meditation space. Perhaps its only flaw: not soundproof. I follow the sound back out to Corrine’s dining room. Corrine and Wes’s dining room, rather. My brother moved in with his former boss turned girlfriend last month.

Though when she suggested that they host our dad for dinner, I think he thought about moving out for a split second.

It’s Corrine’s desire to impress the one parent we have left that keeps her smiling in my father’s direction as he goes off on some tirade about who knows what. Wes sits rigid in his seat next to her, his ears red and fists clenched. My brother isn’t like me. He gives the benefit of the doubt. He turns the other cheek. He waits and waits and waits for people to show him their goodness, while I excise them from my life if it takes longer than five minutes to appear.

Except when it comes to our dad.

At some point, I’m not quite sure when, after Mom died maybe, our roles reversed. Wes has no patience for the man anymore while I keep coming back for more, like an abused puppy who’s never known any better. It would almost be easier if he were outwardly cruel. Then maybe the bitch I’ve always known myself to be would appear. Maybe she’s just not being given the right stimulus, what with his casual disregard for most of my existence.

Operation Bill Chambers, You Are My Father (So Act Like It) may have launched too soon for my brother. But if I didn’t launch now, it might never happen. It’s not like Dad would take it upon himself to fill this mom-sized hole in my chest. For some stupid reason, I assumed he would know that with our mother gone we’d need this. But he’s clueless.

As usual.

I put my hand on his shoulder. “Maybe we should get going, Dad.”

Wes stands, the chair scraping against the floor. “I’ll call him a cab.”

“I can drive him,” I say.

My brother clenches his jaw, his glasses skewed from rubbing his eyes. He’s had a habit since we were kids, he fidgets. Plays with his sleeves or scratches at this spot above his ear. Since he met his girlfriend, he’s become more sure of himself. Only in the most stressful situations does he revert to these old tics.