• • •
I’m still on medication.
The correct amount now.
Someone was very bossy about it and stood in my room and watched me put the extras away and hasn’t brought it up since.
That’s the whole conversation we’ve had about it.
That’s enough for now.
• • •
After dinner my dad shoos us out of the kitchen.
“Go outside,” he says. “It’s a nice night. I’ve got this.”
He gestures at the dishes.
We look at the dishes.
We look at him.
“Dad —”
“Go.” He’s already running the water. “Enjoy it. That’s an order.”
Cassian grabs a blanket from the closet —
he knows where we keep everything, he’s always known — and we go out through the back.
• • •
The garden.
My mom’s garden.
The daisies are everywhere.
Every color.
Messy and bright in the dark, catching the light from the back porch.
Still going.
Still alive.
Still hers.
My dad has been tending them.
I know this without having to ask.
Every morning, I assume.
Because that’s who he is.
Because they’re her third love and he’s her first and so they’re his responsibility now.
