I didn’t write paragraphs this time. I wrote the truth. You told me you needed time away from my daughter, so I gave you that time. I won’t apologize for spending Thanksgiving with people who wanted us there. And I won’t be sending money for the property taxes. Then I sent it to the family group chat, set my phone face down on the counter, and picked up Hazel.

Nobody replied that night. The next evening, as snow drifted past my window, someone knocked on my apartment door. It was my father, alone, his coat dusted white, holding an envelope in both hands. He had driven six hours. He didn’t come inside. He just held out the envelope. “It’s the six thousand for the roof,” he said hoarsely. “And Kelsey, your mother didn’t write that birthday text.”