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When Dad finally stops driving, we pull into the driveway of a foreign brick two-story house. The closest neighbor is a few acres away, and tall green grass surrounds the building for as long as the eye can see. I don't know where we are, so I look to my dad expectantly, waiting for him to fill in the blanks.

"It's not much," my dad admits, looking at me with a goofy smile. "But it's home."

Home. Whenever I hear that word, a building doesn't come to mind. A town doesn't really come to mind either, because my dad and I have moved quite a bit in the last few months. When I hear the word home, my mom comes to mind. She was my place of comfort and happiness. The place I felt safest. All the things a home should be.

Now she's gone.

"I grew up in this house," Dad tells me softly. I study his face closely, looking for some display of emotion. After everything we've been through, Dad's gotten pretty good at masking his feelings. I wonder if I can say the same of myself.

"In this town," Dad adds, staring up at the house with an almost wistful gleam in his blue eyes.

"What's it called?" I ask, deciding that I might as well know the name of the town I'll be living in for the next month. There's no point in thinking about staying longer than that. We never stay in one place long.

"Aster Pines," Dad says. "It's a real small town. I think you'll like it."

I bite back a snippy remark and instead ask, "How long will we be here?"

"I'm done moving around, Morgan," Dad murmurs, shaking his head. "It's . . . it's not healthy for us. We need to be somewhere safe. Somewhere we can stay. Someplace to call home." Dad takes a deep breath. "I think this is it, Morgan. This is where I grew up. To me, this is home."

I don't tell him that this will never be my home. Mom isn't here. She's miles away, back in Texas.

"Whose house is this?" I ask as Dad walks to the car, ready to bring in our boxes. We don't have much.

"Used to belong to your grandparents," Dad tells me, picking up a box marked kitchen from the trunk. "Now it belongs to me."

I watch my dad disappear inside the house, wondering if this is for real.

I can't stop myself from wishing it wasn't.

• • •

"What do you think?"

I'm not sure how to answer the question. I could take it multiple ways. What do I think of my new reality? What do I think of life without Mom? What do I think of myself?

They are all questions I'm not quite ready to answer. I guess that's why I choose to pretend Dad's talking about the room, even though I know the question goes deeper than that. I can tell by the look on Dad's face as he watches me, waiting for my answer, that he's worried. Worried about me.

I can't blame him, because I am too.

I turn to face Dad, studying him closely before I answer his question. His dark hair has sprouted some gray streaks over the past year, but after all that's happened lately that is to be expected. His blue eyes remind me of the ocean. Pretty to look at, but you can't see what's under the surface. His face is remarkably wrinkle-free, besides the crows feet etched onto the sides of his eyes that were caused by how much he smiled. Neither of us smile much anymore.

I turn away from him.

"It's . . . nice." My words are hollow. I don't mean them. It's just a room. The walls are white and the floor is hardwood. A large window brings in sunlight across from me, and that's the only thing in the room. Light.

"It's not much now," Dad says, clearing his throat. "But you can decorate it however you like. You know, this used to be my room back in the day."

If this were any other given day, I might have asked my dad what growing up was like. I might have asked about Gram and Gramps, or what it was like to live on a farm. But I don't, because this isn't any given day. This is the day I am supposed to start over, move on. I am like a bird with wounded wings. I'm supposed to fly, but I just can't seem to figure out how to spread my wings. The irony isn't lost on me.

"Morgan." I can tell by the tone of Dad's voice that whatever it is he's about to say, it's important. I stare out of the window, waiting for him to continue.

"I know the past few months have been hard on you," Dad mumbles, his voice soft and gentle, almost like a mother's. It isn't his job to be the mother. "I know, kiddo. They've been hard on me, too."

I bite my trembling lip. I know what he's going to say. I've heard the words a million times from a million different people. Everyone says the same thing, offering halfhearted condolences that really mean nothing. But at the end of the day, I ignore them. Because they have lost her too, but really she was never theirs. I knew her in a way they never will; my pain a million times their own.

"And I know what you must be feeling," Dad continues. "You think by leaving that town you're leaving her. But that's not true, kiddo. I just  . . . couldn't stay." Something in Dad's tone shifts. He sounds almost distant as he adds, "I see her everywhere in that town, Morgan. Like her ghost is following me, and I—I just—" Dad shakes his head, rubbing his temples. I know what he means, because I feel it too. Back home, Mom was everywhere. She had walked those streets. Been to those stores. Only, I didn't view it as a curse. For me it was a blessing. She was there with me.

Now she's simply gone.

"I need this, Morgan," Dad says softly, his voice almost a whisper. "I need the chance to move on. To start over. And I think you do, too. After . . . after everything, we deserve it."

"I don't want to forget her." My words are a whisper. My darkest fear, out in the open. I feel vulnerable, naked. But, it's true. Memories. All I have is memories. Back in Texas, I had her grave. I could go visit it. No matter how many times we moved, we always stayed in Texas. Never too far to see her. Now, we're miles away in Georgia. I have nothing tangible left. Just the memories. One day, they will all be gone. Then I'll be left with nothing.

"Morgan." Dad steps toward me, hands on my shoulders, forcing me to face him. "We could never forget your mother. You hear me? Never. No matter where we go, she'll always be with us." Dad takes a deep breath. "Whenever I look at you, I see her. You look exactly like her, with your golden hair and hazel eyes. Love isn't bound to some house, Morgan. Love isn't bound to towns or states or even earth. Love is bound to people, Morgan, and your mother's love for you didn't go with her."

I don't know when I start crying. I just feel the tears dripping down my face, landing on my hands. Dad holds me in his arms tightly, and I know he is crying too. Oddly enough, it feels good to cry. I don't think I've cried enough.

So, that's what I do. I let it all out. I let out the fear and the grief and the sadness. I let it out so that it doesn't consume me. Because, deep down, I know my dad is right. I deserve the chance to start over. I deserve to be set free.

But that doesn't mean it's going to be easy.


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