That’s when the frustration and anger and hurt finally bubble over.

There are no tears. I’m too angry for tears, which is good because tears never help. I dump the bread on the counter, turn off the stove, grab my father’s keys off the table, and head out to the garage. It takes me no time at all to find the small bottle of vodka he has stashed in his glove compartment and the larger bottle still in its bag in the trunk. Before I can think too hard about what I am doing, I empty both bottles onto the ground, then throw them into the recycling container. The shattering of glass echoes in the night like the screams that I keep caged inside.

Will getting rid of the bottles change anything?

No. He’ll just buy more. But when he finds them missing or sees the pieces of broken glass in the recycling container, he’ll know I was the one who took them. Maybe that will make him wait a day or two before going to the store for more.

When he finally comes downstairs, I put food on the table and feign hunger. Dad makes a point of eating the soup and the grilled cheese with enthusiasm and asks if I am ready for my finals tomorrow.

“I need to spend some time looking over my geometry notes,” I admit as I dump the last quarter of my sandwich in the garbage and place my plate and bowl in the sink.

“Do you want me to go over them with you?” he asks. “I’m good with numbers.”

I turn back toward him. For a minute Dad looks at me like he used to before the accident. Interested. Excited at the prospect of helping me. He always said that math was the greatest thing in the world.

When I was little he used to tease Mom when she struggled with a design. He’d say she should have become an accountant because math was dependable in the execution. There was no worry over choices. The numbers just added up.

I know he was hoping, for a while, that I’d follow in his footsteps.

Dad was the one who saw the step in front of him. Mom had dreamed of the steps people had yet to take. I can’t help but wonder if things would be better between us now if I were more like him.

I shrug off Dad’s offer. “I just need to read over some of the proofs one more time. That’s easier to do alone.”

And really, sitting in the living room with him talking about numbers would feel normal. There’s nothing normal about either one of us, and I’m not up to pretending.

“Well,” he says with a sigh, “I’ll be just a room away if you need me.”

If only that were true, I think as he brings his plate to the counter. We do the dishes in silence. There used to be laughter in the kitchen. Dad is probably thinking the same as we dry the plates and put them away. The quiet is painful, and as much as I want to hide in my room alone, I find myself suddenly saying, “I guess . . . we could go over my notes together, if you really want to.”