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What I remember was the woman she used to be. I remember the Melissa Morgan of before, who used to read me stories at bedtime. I remember water balloon fights in the backyard every summer. I remember going to the movies together and her teaching me how to throw popcorn in the air and catch it in my mouth.

I remember her laugh. God, her laugh. It was contagious. No one could stay in a bad mood when my mom was laughing. And she laughed all the time. Dad loved making her laugh, and so did I.

But then, one day, she stopped.

Everything stopped.

As if someone flipped a switch inside her and turned everything off.

And now she’s gone.

She’ll never come back.

She’ll never be that woman again.

She’ll never be my mom again.

The thought steals what little air I have left, and this time, when a fresh wave of tears spills down my cheeks, I don’t even have the energy to wipe them away.

“Hey.”

The familiar voice is so soft I almost miss it. I lift my head to find Milo Fletcher sitting on the curb right across from me.

“Hey.” I nod back.

“Are you okay?”

I let out a humorless scoff. “Are you?”

“Yeah… stupid question. Sorry.” He shoves his hands deeper into the pockets of his black coat, drawing my attention to the rest of him.

Unlike me, Milo dressed up for his mom’s funeral. In a crisp white dress shirt, black tie, tailored slacks, and a matching jacket, he looks just as picture-perfect as his mom always did.

Me? I buried my mother wearing one of her favorite Korn T-shirts, ripped jeans, and my Chucks. Hell, I don’t even remember brushing my hair this morning.

Maybe that’s why we’ve always made such strange neighbors. Like our mothers, Milo and I couldn’t be more different. And yet tonight, we’re so fucking alike it hurts.

“I… uh… saw your dad take off,” he says, his focus fixed on the pavement.

“He just needs a minute,” I defend, feeling a little prickly that he saw my dad bail on me on a day like today.

“Yeah.” He mumbles to himself, head low. “I think my dad could use a minute to himself too, but everyone keeps pestering him. I wish they would just leave us alone.”

Huh. I guess the phrase ‘the grass is always greener on the other side’ doesn’t apply here. Looks like Milo’s side of the street is just as fucked up as mine. His only has better catering.

“They’re only trying to help,” I say, kicking a pebble with the toe of my sneaker.

“We don’t need their help. We don’t need any more casseroles or lamentations or whatever else they keep bringing to the house. We just need to be left alone.”

“Right.” I scoff. “Easy for you to say.”

Milo looks up at me, anger darkening their usual golden chestnut hue in a way I’ve never seen before.

“Are you making fun of me?”

“No. I’m just saying it’s easy to talk trash about people who go out of their way to help you when you actually have that help. You don’t want the free food? Fine. Send it my way then. I wouldn’t pass up a home-cooked meal I didn’t have to make myself.”

His features soften, the anger giving way to familiar grief.