to mean you don’t love someone anymore. Just that you can’t
live together.”
“You think that’s what happened?” I wonder, in that case, if
Dad could live with anyone.
“Maybe. If you think about it, they’d been at each other a
lot over the past year. Maybe Dad saw the writing on the wall.
Mom wasn’t going to live with his bouts of silence forever, and
lately, he’s been—”
“Hey!” I snap. “I’d like to see how Heather would cope if
your sperm-donor father suddenly took off—”
“He did!” Cassidy says. “Dad didn’t miss a single soccer
game last year. You want to know how many games the sperm
donor has been to in my whole life? Try zero. But Mom doesn’t
let his absence rule her days.”
“Maybe because it’s obvious he’s still breathing, even if he
doesn’t keep in touch.” An emptiness floods my heart, stirring
memories of Mom clacking away at an ancient typewriter—she
preferred it to the computer—and tears prick at me. I press a
few fingers to my lips, as if I can take back what I just said.
“Sam.” Cassidy pats my knee. It’s obvious she realized it too.
For the first time ever, I’ve admitted what so many other
people—the police, the press, the whole town—have always
assumed.
That my mom might really be dead.
40
