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the front door. “Be safe,” I tell him, our usual goodbye—a goodbye we started when I started drinking. Now I think we say it out of habit more than safety.
    He turns around, smiling. “Be safe.” He walks back to his car and drives away.
    I look at the clock on the mantle. It’s not late, but I feel exhausted. Instead of calling Nessa, I text her a short catch-up before grabbing my laptop from my bag and walking to the dining table.
    My mom’s place setting is screaming at me, her voice echoing in the background. She would cut roses from her garden; the petals always looked overgrown on our small wooden table, as if her loved filled them up to capacity—reds and whites exploding over the table in between her baby angels.
    Suddenly I can’t look at them. I can’t hear their voices. So I fill my arms with the angels and roses, locking them away in the hallway closet. I peel off the tablecloth to reveal a bare hardwood table—a table removed of distractions. I put my laptop down and start booting it up.
    I still have the laptop from my first year of college. Dad did extra construction jobs to buy me my first laptop. He said it was a rite of passage, buying his baby girl her first computer. The old thing still works, even missing three keys. I dump the contents of my purse on the table, scattering everything to search for my wallet, phone, paper, and pencil. I make a list of what I need to do for the funeral.
    I search Google for numbers and arrange for a low-key service. I send out a blast email to my relatives to notify them, keeping it short and concise. God I hate them all. My parents didn’t like anyone anyways, so why bother having anyone here to disturb their peace. But I know what Mom would say, ‘We may not like them, but if we don’t tell them, they’re just going to bring it up for the next ten years.’
    Three hours later, I’m finished with preparations. My savings is cleaned out with each mouse click. So, I’m going to need to get a job if I expect to feed us. I pick up my bag to put it in my room. The boys have been quiet; I hope they’re okay. Should I have checked on them sooner? I don’t know! I feel like they should have their space. Or should they not have space now? Ugh.
    I peek my head in their rooms and they’re empty. Empty! I search frantically around the house until I find them in my parents’ room. They are fast asleep in their bed. They look so small and childlike—not like the tall boys they’ve become recently. I don’t bother changing clothes; I get in next to them, pulling them close.
    Today finally hits me in full force. I break down, quietly sobbing, tears rolling down my face onto the pillow. This is the last time I will allow myself to cry in front of others. The last time I will let this get the better of me. I’m a surrogate mother now; mothers don’t let their children see them sad.
    I fall asleep worried how I will be able to pay for back-to-school clothes, food, utility bills and eventually college.
    God sure is playing a cruel joke on us. All I can say is, Bring it on bitch.

Chapter 3
     
    I engaged my autopilot the next morning, walking through the motions. I pressed the boys’ suits for them to wear. I pulled on my most conservative black dress and cardigan.
    The wake and funeral went by too fast. It’s all blurs and images. We all went up to talk about how great our parents were—wow…“were”.
    Vanessa and Charlie came down to help me deal with people. Vanessa prepared food and watched the boys while I handled the new motherly duties of pretending to like people who never cared to visit. Charlie handled all important questions for me so I could keep a brave face. My job was to reign in my feelings and keep it all together long enough to cry myself to sleep when alone.
    All five of us are sitting at the dining room table, exhausted and unmoving. I don’t know how I’m supposed to take care of them, especially since I don’t even know how to take