“Why are we here?” Karl asks and sinks back into the floral, wing-backed chair. His lower legs jut straight out of the seat.

“To dress Dad’s body for the viewing.”

I see Rob’s family arriving.

Ansel goes on a hunt for funeral home candy. Barely-a-teenager, he returns with slump posture and announces, “No candy!”

“Darn it,” Helena, my cheeky tween says, pretending to be angry. She gauges Ansel’s woeful expression and laughs.

I remember the sound as a thud, an enormous, blunt thud, louder and more resonant than anything I ever heard before. My head jerked sideways, then returned to center buffeted by a wave of air. I knew something bad had happened, something irreversible; nothing good makes a sound that big.

My mind is fucking racing. I lay here in thick, suffocating silence, stranded in the gulf between nausea and despair. Curled in the fetal position I stare. I stare at the poster haphazardly hung on the wall outside my door. It’s unframed, the corners curling at the edges. I used to love this risograph print of Margot from The Royal Tenenbaums, sitting in her bathtub, hands draped over the edges as she stares at something I can’t see.

Time.

Day after day.

Night after night.

My father suffered from alcoholism. As a result, we all suffered. I was three-and-a-half years old when my parents’ divorce was final. My baby sister was still an infant. While some may believe toddlers won’t remember, I assure you, that is a myth.

So I guess my change of heart could be summed up as this:  that of an adoring, unconditional love to one of hate, and finally sympathy and distance.  I guess some stories are incapable of having a happy ending for everyone.