Chapter 122

• DAVE
• Four Years Later
• I don’t think there’s a manual for moments like this. The kind where you’re watching your ‘not quite mother’ scratch that, let’s just call her Anna, because calling her Mom still makes what Evelyn and I forbidden— walk out of a rehab center while your wife clutches your hand hard enough to bruise bone, and your son, who looks uncannily like her dead father, hums a cartoon theme in the back seat, blissfully unaware of how complicated adults can make their own lives.