-Reilly-
It’s a very quiet ride home, uncomfortably so. The silence makes the drive feel longer than it actually is. Enzo is mad at my dad. I’m mad at my dad. I’m not sure I even want to go back to Enzo’s house, but I don’t want to stay with Dad, either. I want to curl into a ball and cry.
My dad is dying. I’ve known this, but it felt so real when I saw all the stuff in his room today. Nurses were arriving when we left, and Dad was still in his pajamas. I can count on one hand the number of times my dad hasn’t been dressed and ready for the day by 7:30.
We turn into the drive, and Enzo parks the car. He doesn’t get out, but instead reaches over and squeezes my leg. “We’re changing rooms. They moved our things up to the attic last night.”
“We can’t take your brothers’ rooms,”
