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Just as he’s packing up his toolbox, he turns toward the kitchen sink with a frown and asks, “Has that faucet always leaked like that?”
I glance at the steady drip hitting the sink, and reply, “For a while.”
“How long is a while?” he asks, walking toward it with Milo and me in tow.
I shrug. “Couple months. Maybe longer.” Milo gives me a look like I just gave his dad the wrong answer. “What? It still works.”
Paul chuckles and reaches for the handle, turning the water on and off a few times before crouching to look beneath the sink.
“It’s probably the cartridge. Easy enough to replace.”
Of course it is. Apparently, everything in this house that’s been broken for months can be fixed faster than it takes my dad to decide if it’s worth fixing.
“Shouldn’t take too long to get this done. Just need to grab a cartridge and my basin wrench from the garage. You kids just go about your business. Don’t even worry about me. Pretend I’m not even here.”
“If only it was that easy,” Milo mutters beneath his breath, trudging back into the living room.
I thank Mr. Fletcher again just as he heads back to his house. Once he’s gone, I place my hands on my hips and stare at Milo.
“What’s your problem?”
“Me? I don’t have a problem.” He slumps onto the sofa before pulling out his textbooks and setting them on the coffee table.
“Yes, you do. You’re being a dick to your dad. Why?”
Milo lets out another frustrated breath and replies, “Just leave it alone, Max. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.” I sit beside him.
“You really want to know?” I nod. “Okay. Fine. But you’re going to think that it’s petty and childish, and I don’t want to be either of those things. It’s just…” He trails off, struggling to put his feelings into words. “My house doesn’t feel like my house anymore. It’s all pink and girly and all the things my mom would’ve never had in it. Jennine and Peyton have completely taken over. There are boxes from Jennine’s salon piled up everywhere, along with a never-ending stream of Amazon packages for Peyton. The doorbell’s constantly ringing with another delivery or one of their friends showing up unannounced. People call the house at all hours just to gossip and talk about everyone else’s business. It’s so not like…” He stops.
“Like when your mom was there?” I finish quietly, finally understanding why he’s been so prickly with his dad.
“I mean, I get it. After Dad married Jennine last summer, I knew things would be different. But do they have to be so different? Even the most mundane things don’t feel the same anymore. Take dinner, for instance. Mom and Dad used to talk about their day, ask me questions about mine. It was… nice.” He looks down at the coffee table. “Now I have to hear about old man Tucker stepping out on his wife or how the Roys had to take out a second mortgage just to keep their repair shop open. It’s just… not us. Or at least not who we used to be. Mom was a private person. She didn’t tell everyone our business, nor did she care about anyone else’s. It feels like Dad doesn’t even care that our home has completely been taken over and that there’s no trace of my mom left whatsoever. It’s like none of it bothers him. Like he’s forgotten all about her.”
“That’s not true.” I place my hand over his knee. “Your dad hasn’t forgotten your mom. I know he hasn’t.”
Milo covers my hand with his, the sadness etched into his features making my heart ache. “I wish I could believe that, Max. But you don’t live with him. You don’t see what I see.” He studies our joined hands for a moment. “Sometimes it feels like I’m the only one who remembers her.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, knowing nothing could be further from the truth. The smart thing would be to leave it alone, to not get mixed up in his family’s dynamics, but seeing the misery in Milo’s gaze makes it impossible. I just hope that divulging an uncomfortable truth is better than offering a comforting lie.
“Did you know I go to the cemetery every Sunday to talk to my mom?” Milo’s forehead creases at the unexpected confession.
“You do?”
“Yeah.” I give a small shrug. “It probably sounds silly, but we actually have a better relationship now than we did when she was alive,” I try to joke, but the sadness plastered all over his face tells me it doesn’t land. “Anyway, I go because it feels good just to talk to her. I know that she’s not really there. That there’s nothing beneath that headstone but a coffin holding what’s left of her. But it doesn’t matter. It makes me feel better to sit there and tell her about my week. Everything that’s going on in my life. I’m not sure why, but by the time I leave, I always feel a little lighter having talked to her.”
“It’s not silly at all.” He threads his fingers through mine, his thumb gently tracing slow circles over my skin. “If it brings you peace, then it’s not silly.” He looks away. “I… haven’t been brave enough to go to the cemetery yet. A slab of cement with her name on it isn’t how I want to remember my mom.”
“I get that.” I nod, offering him a small smile. “It’s okay.”
“Is it? Is it okay that I hate my dad for forgetting about her when I don’t even have the courage to visit her grave?” He lets out a weary sigh, his head hung low. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you found the courage to visit your mom when I can’t even visit mine. You were always stronger than me.”
“I don’t think I am. I think we just deal with grief differently. Everyone does. So does your dad.” His head lifts at my statement, confusion knitting his brows.
“The reason I’m telling you this is because every Sunday morning, when I go up the hill to Alder Cemetery to visit my mom, I see your dad there too. I saw him there this morning, as I do every Sunday. He brings a white rose and places it on her grave.” I smile softly at the memory. “Like me, he talks to her. Sometimes, when the wind isn’t blowing, I can even make out your name. I think he tells her about how you’ve been. How you’re doing without her.” I give his hand a gentle squeeze. “So don’t think your dad has forgotten your mom. I don’t think anyone ever forgets their first love.”
My heart stops when I notice Milo fighting back tears.
