I’d returned to school days ago, and I only have a month or so before I graduate. Like a robot, I go through the motions, attending classes and doing homework and taking tests. What else is there to do? Blake ignores me for the most part when he actually comes to school, and I no longer have the desire to fix what’s broken between us.

Then at dinner on my mom’s last night, she says, “Come live with me.”

I drop my fork, staring at her, wondering if she’s kidding. She swirls her glass of wine, peering into the ruby liquid as if to divine my answer there.

“Mom—”

“You’re going to college in the fall, so it would only be a few months. But I want the chance to know you again, Sophie.”

I have no idea what to say. My thoughts barely look ahead to putting on my pajamas at the end of the day, let alone what I will be doing in a few months. Nothing is easy between us.

Her blue eyes plead. “Just think about it. That’s all I’m asking. It might be a good thing to have a change of scenery.”

She leaves, and for the first time in weeks, I am alone in the house with my father.

A short pause follows my knock on his study door before he calls, “Come in.”

He hides behind his desk with a pile of folders laid out in front of him. Things have changed: I’ve changed. I’m no longer afraid of him hating me. After all, it was never me he saw when he looked at me. And I am more than a poor copy of her.

I set a covered plate of food on the desk. “Mom left this for you.”

He shoots me a questioning look.

“She’s gone,” I say. “Back to Uncle Eddy.”

We have tiptoed around this conversation for days. Maybe for years. Without a chair to sit in, I stand. Rather than retreating, I walk the perimeter of the room, trailing my fingers over the books on his Wall of War.

“What’s on your mind, Quinn?” he asks, leaving the plate untouched.

He watches me warily, and I drop my hands to my sides. I won’t fidget like I’m the guilty party. “She told me she tried to see me. That you wouldn’t let her see me.”

Such a strong Marine, my father. He does not betray his emotions the slightest. His voice remains calm and even. “And? You expect me to apologize for that?”

“No.” I shake my head. That would be like holding my breath until the sun stopped shining. I don’t even expect answers. “I just wanted to know if it was the truth.”

“I knew this would happen. Your mom shows up, and you think she’s some kind of hero. She’ll disappoint you. That’s why I kept her away.”

“Then it is true.”

A muscle works along his jaw when he clenches his teeth. “I did what I thought was best.”

“Did you, Daddy?” I ask. I hug my arms about my body. “Because from where I stood, I thought you hated me.” I start crying. “Do you know how much I’ve hated that I look like her? Do you think I didn’t know what you’ve thought of me these last months? A slut just like Mom?”

My father stands, slapping both hands flat on the desk as he glares at me. “Sophie Topper Quinn, I won’t hear you speak like that in my house.”

He sounds angry, like when I was a child and he would draw out my name to let me know how much trouble I was in.

Sophie Topper Quinn, for a spanking and a week grounded.

Sophie Quinn, for no TV and early to bed.

And, once upon a time, I was just Sophie, for love and kisses and my arms around his neck after six months apart.

Quietly I say, “So you do remember my name? I wasn’t sure anymore.”

My father says nothing. I’ve pushed him too far. He will not engage. I leave him in his office, but before I go I tell him, “She’s asked me to move in with her until I leave for college.”

I wait. For anger. For blame. For a crack to show. But there is only rebar reinforcing steel. Big, strong Lieutenant Colonel Cole Quinn is too weak to talk about the past.

The movies have everything wrong, it turns out.

Those big reunions where everyone apologizes and the family lives happily ever after? They’re such bullshit.

The truth is, some apologies never see the light of day.

*   *   *

On my way to my room, the phone rings. I pick up the receiver of our old rotary phone from the table in the hall. “Hello?”

“Quinn.”

His voice sinks me to the floor like a stone to the bottom of a pond.

“Carey.”

“It’s Mr. Breen, Quinn.”

The difference in their voices finally penetrates. No, not Carey at all.

“Hi, Mr. Breen. How is he?” Carey’s parents have been in Germany with him, sending bits of news back to the town through Blake. It’s taken two weeks. Two weeks for one of them to call me.

There’s a long pause. Finally, he says, “Well. As well as can be expected, considering.”

That is not the same as “good” or “better,” but I’ll take it.

“I’m glad,” I say. “I’ve been worried about him.”

And it’s true. Staying home after George died, there had been nothing to do except watch the news, raking through reports on Carey for some tidbit of truth. Everything’s “he’s a hero,” but nobody will speak of how said hero is holding up. He would hate the kind of attention he’s getting.

There’s another pause. When Mr. Breen speaks, it’s like the words are pulled out of him. “He asked me to call you.”