This isn’t some strange thing my mother saw in a dream and worked on despite it being a waste of resources. This is an identical representation of a small piece of the city I never thought to look closely at before.

I grab the other paintings from their perches on the floor and set them up on easels around the room. Now that I understand the images aren’t abstract, I look at them with a fresh eye, searching for anything that appears familiar.

Yes. The last one in line has a hard, rust-red curve. That’s the same shape and color as the supports of the bridge from today. The La Salle Street Bridge. And I think the one with bluish stone-like texture and a curved bit of burnished bronze could be the edge of the podium and statue that I passed today while following the guy in the black sweatshirt.

My mind spins as I look from picture to picture—at the unfinished work that has haunted me since my mother’s death.

I don’t see any other part of the La Salle Street Bridge reflected in the rest of Mom’s other paintings. But I feel as if I might actually be getting closer to finally understanding. . . .

A door slams. Dad’s home. And when I glance at the clock I realize how long I have been staring at the pictures. Dad is later than normal. Much later.

When I walk into the kitchen, it is obvious as to why. My throat tightens. His gait is unsteady, and when he turns toward me the pink in his cheeks and the dull, glassy sheen across his eyes make it clear he has broken his promise . . . again.

Whatever he sees on my face causes his tentative smile to fade and his shoulders to slump. “Meri . . .” He takes a step forward. “I saw a woman in the lobby at work who looked like your mother. The others invited me to get a drink and . . .”

His voice trails off. His eyes search my face, begging for forgiveness.

I want to scream.

I want to scream and yell and tell him that he wasn’t the only one who lost Mom. I lost her, too. And every day that he drinks I lose him. I need him. He’s all I have left. And he doesn’t seem to care.

But I choke back the words bubbling to break free. I’ve said it all before. Dozens and dozens of times and nothing changes. He apologizes and promises to do better, and even though I don’t believe him, a part of me desperately wants to.

A part of me still hopes, and I’m angry that I do.

“Go change,” I force myself to say. “I’ll make something for us to eat.”

He crosses to me with a sad smile. “I promise tomorrow will be better, Meri.” He pats my shoulder. I stand still as a statue as he passes by. When I hear footsteps on the stairs, I swallow the bitter taste in my mouth, go to the pantry, and take out two cans of tomato soup. I empty them into a pan and am grabbing stuff to make grilled cheese when I hear something thud upstairs.