“Micha, what do you think’s going to happen?” I joke. “It’s just my dad.”

He intensely holds my gaze, making a point without saying it. There have been many times where painful, hurtful things have happened between my dad and me.

“All right, see you in an hour,” I promise and he steps outside, drawing his hood over his head as he shuts the door.

I pull out a chair and sink down into it, then steal another cookie from the rooster jar. I’m stuffing the last bit of it into my mouth when my dad walks in, clutching his phone.

He glances around the empty chairs. “Where’d Micha go?”

I swallow the cookie and brush the crumbs off the table. “Home for a little bit, so you and I could talk about some stuff.”

“Yeah, we do need to talk.” He sits down, then glances at the rooster on the table without the lid on. “I see you found the cookies.”

“Yeah, but who made them?” I wonder curiously. “You?”

He shakes his head as he puts the lid back on. “No, Amanda did.”

“Who’s Amanda?”

“This woman I met while I was staying at the alcoholism treatment center.”

“Was she another recovering alcoholic?” I ask.

“No.” He pushes his sleeves up and rests his arms on the table. “She was the secretary there.”

“Oh,” I say. “So… are you, like, dating her?”

He scratches his head. “Um… sort of… I guess.”

“Oh,” I say, at a loss for words. It’s weird he’s dating because he’s my dad and the only person I’ve seen him with is my mom, but then again their relationship was beyond rocky. “Is she the one who cleaned the house?”

His hand falls from his head to the table. “No, I cleaned it. Why?”

I shrug. “Just wondered. It looks nice.”

He gives me a look, like he wants to say more, but then he changes the subject, relaxing back in the chair. “So what was in the box?” he asks rigidly. “I know it was stuff that belonged to your mother, but what exactly?”

“Mom’s journal and a few other things, like drawings and photos.” I pause at the sudden increase of my heart rate. “I didn’t know she liked to draw.”

He stares down at the table with a sad look on his face. “She did when she was younger,” he says quietly. “But she stopped not too long after we got married.”

It’s so hard to be talking about this aloud, asking him questions, but I force myself to continue because I want to know—understand. “Why did she stop?”

When he glances up, his eyes are little watery. “Because she stopped enjoying it and so there was no point, at least that’s what she told me.”

I trace the patterns of the wood in the table, staring down at them, because I can’t look him in the eye with what I’m about to say. “You told me once, when I was… when I was dropping you off at the recovery clinic, that things weren’t always bad. But when was that? I know her bipolar disorder progressively got worse, but even from the start it always felt like mom was sad all the time.”

He’s silent for a while and I worry I might have upset him. But when I look up at him, he’s just staring at me like I’m a person, not a painful reminder of the woman he once loved, which is how he used to look at me all the time.

“Things were never one hundred percent normal when it came to your mom,” he says, his voice strained. “But in the beginning she had way more ups than she did downs. And her… episodes… they were few and far in between.”

“Was she ever happy?”

Again it takes him a moment to answer. “She was happy sometimes. I think anyway. It was so hard to tell.”

“Why was it so hard to tell?” Deep down, though, I think I know the answer. Because sometimes it’s hard to be happy or to even admit that you’re good enough to be happy, that you do deserve it, so you refuse to feel it, fight it. It’s my own thought process sometimes and I hate it, but I’ve also learned to deal with it… I think.

He smiles, but it’s a sad smile. “It’s just the way she was, Ella May. And I really want to believe she was happy, even though she didn’t show it.”

It’s weird hearing him call me that and it throws me off and I let a question slip out that I probably shouldn’t. “Why did you love her?” I ask and then pull a remorseful face. “I’m sorry, Dad. You don’t have to answer that.”

He shakes his head, more water building up in his eyes. “It’s okay. You can ask me things. I’m doing better with… stuff.” He pauses, deliberating, and then his breath falters. “I loved her because in the beginning she was erratic and impulsive and she could make life really surprising and… unpredictable. ” He stares over my shoulder, lost in memories and for a brief moment he almost looks happy. Then he blinks his eyes several times and the look disappears before he turns his attention back to me. “I think she was happy when she had you. And Dean.”

I can’t tell if he’s lying, but I don’t really care if he is or not. He might just be saying it to make me happy and I’ll take it. “Thanks, Dad.”

“No problem.” He seems like he wants to say more, squirming and popping his neck, like he has nervous energy flowing through him. “Ella, I don’t want to make you mad but I… I really wish you’d think about waiting to get married.”

What? “Why?”

“Because…” He rubs the back of his neck and leaves his hand there with his elbow bent upward. “You’re so young… and should live your life before you tie yourself down to grown-up stuff.” He lets his arm fall to his side.

It takes me a moment to speak, because there are a lot of mean words that want to push their way up my throat. Like the fact that I was tied down by grown-up stuff since I was four. Bills. Cooking. Cleaning. Taking care of people. That stuff is not new to me.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, but I don’t mean it. I back toward the door, zipping my jacket up. “And, Dad… thanks for talking about Mom.”

“No problem,” he replies. “I should have talked about her more, I guess.”

I don’t say anything. I agree with him, but I don’t want to say it because it’ll only hurt him, ruin this whole weird, good father/daughter vibe we have going. I open the back door and the wind blows inside, dusting snow across the floor.

“And, Ella,” he calls out as I’m about to step out into the snow and the glacier-cold breeze.

I pause and glance over my shoulder. “Yeah.”

“If you need any help… I mean, with the wedding and stuff if you decide to do it… I’m here if you need me,” he says, shifting his weight.

“Thanks,” I tell him, confused because he wants to help and it’s not something I’m used to. “I’ll let you know, but I think Micha’s mom’s on top of a lot of stuff. She’s super excited.”

He looks a little bit disappointed and I open my mouth to say more, but I can’t think of anything else to say so I wave, walk outside, and shut the door behind me. I feel somewhat bad because he seemed upset about my declining his help, but at the end of the day Micha’s mom was more of a parent to me than either of mine. Micha and she were my family since I was four, not my dad, my mom, or Dean. It was just his mom and Micha, but mainly Micha. He was my past and he is my future.

I pause as I’m about to hop over the fence, the snow knee deep and soaking through my jeans as I have a revelation that slams me square in the chest. From the day Micha begged me to climb over the fence for the very first time, we’ve been inseparable, except for the time I ran away to college. He took care of me. He loved me. He showed me what love was. And I think deep down, even though I couldn’t admit it a couple of years ago, I secretly hoped that he’d be in my life forever—that I’d end up with him. That I’d still be hopping over the fence to see him when I was twenty years old with his ring on my finger. That fifty years down the road I’d still be with him, sitting on a porch swing, drinking lemonade or whatever it is old couples do.

It makes my heart thump in excitement and terror because I think it’s time to let go of the dark things that haunt my past, let things go that I might not want to, so I can move forward into a future with a simple fence, juice box, and a toy car.

Chapter 14

Micha

“Are you sure you want me to do this?” I ask Ella, staring down at her mother’s journal on my lap.

She nods as she digs through her bag on the floor. “Yeah, I only want to know if you find anything happy.” She peers up at me, wearing only a red-and-black bra and matching panties. “If you don’t, then I don’t need to read it. But if you do, then I want to read it just so I can hear about the happy part of her I never got to see.”

I massage the back of my neck, nervous about reading something so private. “Okay, if that’s what you want.”

“It is.” She straightens her legs and stands up with a black dress in her hand. “But only if you feel comfortable doing it.”

I want to say that I’m not but there’s no way that I’m going to. Not after she came into the house yesterday after talking to her dad and announced that she was ready to move forward without finishing the journal because she wanted to let go of the past. I’m not even sure where the declaration came from, but there’s no way I’m going to do anything that will ruin it. “I’m down for a little reading, I guess.” I move the journal off my lap and onto the bed, then lean forward and grab the edge of the short, tight dress she’s about to put on. “Just as long as you tell me where the hell you’re going wearing this?”

“With Lila out to dinner,” she answers. “Why? What’s wrong with the dress?”