Lucas came home one day to find a picture of him and Dana—taken just once at a fall fair—framed beside the couch, while the picture of him as a baby in his mother’s arms had been moved to a back shelf in the hallway, barely visible behind a dying fern. Dana always said the right things. “You’re such a good boy.”
“Your mom would be so proud of you.” “You’re helping your dad more than you know.” But there was a weight behind her words, a quiet pressure that made Lucas feel like he was constantly walking a tightrope. Like if he slipped, even once, everything would fall apart. The rules came next. No more flowers for the grave—“they’re expensive, and it’s not like she can see them.”