He comes home from every session looking like a man who has survived something, drops onto the couch, puts his head in my lap and says nothing for approximately forty-five minutes.
I run my hand through his hair and do not say I told you so.
I think it extremely loudly.
He always knows.
• • •
"Morning."
He comes into the kitchen in a gray shirt and worn jeans, hair still slightly wrecked, and I have been in love with him since I was eight years old so I'm immune to this by now.
I'm extremely not immune to this.
"Coffee," I say, pointing.
He goes for the coffee. My dad slides a plate toward him without being asked. Cassian sits down across from me and eats like someone who has been awake for hours already, which he has — he gets up before the sun and runs, which is a personality trait I respect and do not share.
"Moretti job today," my dad says.
"I know."
"East wall."
"I know, Daniel."
My dad beams at him. He loves when Cassian calls him Daniel. I don't fully understand it, he just does. He has been quietly, relentlessly adopting Cassian since that boy was eight years old and he acts like each individual new development is a personal victory.
"You could call him Dad," I say. "Really complete the bit."
Cassian points at me without looking up from his plate. "Do not."
"Just saying."
"I will move out."
"You absolutely will not."
My dad is laughing. The big easy laugh — the one that fills the kitchen. The one that sounds, more and more, like the version of himself he's growing back into.
He's seeing someone.
Her name is Patricia and she teaches third grade and she laughs at all his jokes, which is either love or a very specific kind of patience. She comes over for dinner on Thursdays. She brought homemade pie last week.
My dad talked about the pie for four days.
I think he's happy.
I think it's okay that he's happy.
I know my mom would think so too.
• • •
I'm off the medication.
Have been for a year and a half.
