Cassidy sighs, turning her head to stare out the transom window that overlooks the fenced backyard. Patches of snow have melted, brown grass peeking through. Signs of spring’s approach.
The squirrel feeder installed shortly after Cassidy left for college stands just outside the window. Mom was convinced one squirrel—I forget what she named it—returned every morning.
I wonder if Mom remembers the name. It bothers me thatIcan’t. Like I’m letting down the one person who’s always been there for me.
Dad left.
Cassidy left.
Mom stayed.
My phone screen lights up with an email notification. It’s spam, a sale at a store I rarely shop at, but reminds me of the text—We need to talk about your mother—sitting unanswered.
“You told Dad?” I try to keep the accusation out of my tone—I really do—but some sneaks in anyway.
Cassidy’s fingers tighten around the ceramic mug, answering for her, before she says defensively, “He asked how she was.”
“Doesn’t mean he deserves to know.”
My sister sighs. “Look, I know you have your issues with him?—”
I snort. Loudly.Issuesdon’t even begin to cover the tattered state of my relationship with our father.
“But he’s not a bad person,” Cassidy continues.
“Debatable,” I mutter.
Mark Caldwell does the bare minimum to ease his conscience, but never shows up when it’s inconvenient.
“He’s paying for Little Red Wagon,” she tells me, confirming my assumption.
“Shelling out for private preschool doesn’t make him a saint, Cassidy.”
She taps her fingers on the mug, shaking her head. “And what has holding a grudge gotten you, Claire? He can afford to give Tommy things I can’t. So what if it’s out of guilt?”
“You can make whatever decisions you want for you and Tommy. I’m asking you to leave Mom out of it. And to not discuss me with him either.”
“How else is he supposed to know what’s happening? You won’t talk to him.”
Exactly,I think.He won’t.
Cassidy sighs. “He was upset, Claire. Sad. He watched Granny Lou go through it.”
“So did Mom,” I snap.
“I know. I’m just saying… Dad wants to help.”
I reach forward and open my laptop, closing out of all the tabs except one, spinning it so Cassidy can see the website displayed on-screen. “I don’t need his help.”
She leans forward to survey the Echo Glen website. Whistles under her breath. “Wow. I thought you were exaggerating.”
“When do I ever exaggerate?”
“Good point.” Cassidy stands, walking over to the microwave and setting the mug inside.
We both watch the two minutes count down.
“I remembered to buy your milk yesterday,” Cassidy says, grabbing a carton of two percent out of the fridge and adding a splash to her now-steaming cup.
