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“Hi Mom,” I said, sitting down in the guest chair across from the one she sat in.

Immediately, her face fell, confusion taking over.

“Mrs. Harrington,” I corrected myself.

The worry in her expression eased slightly, but it didn’t go entirely away.

“We haven’t seen each other in a while,” I said. “So, you might not remember me.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said, apologetically.

“It’s fine,” I said, my chest squeezing.

“What are you reading?”

Mom brightened. She told me about the story, something about a baseball player and a woman sports reporter falling in love.

“Your son used to play baseball,” I said. “One of them.”

“Oh?” Clearly, she didn’t remember she had a son, let alone three.

“Yeah. That’s him, right there.”

I got up and went to the windowsill, where rain tapped against the glass. For a moment, I had a flash of sun shining through the rain. Of Cassandra, twirling, while the drops fell on her face.

I blinked that away and picked up the photo of me posed over home base.

She smiled. “Isn’t he sweet?”

I set the frame down. I was about to sit down again when I spotted a photo I didn’t recognize. I knew all the photos here—they’d sat in this same configuration for the past three years. But not this one. It was unframed and was leaning against the window.

My stomach dropped. It was Dad, with a toddler on his shoulders.

Me. That child was me.

“Was Dad here?” I asked, my skin prickling. I flipped the photo over.

Brian and Blake,it said. That was it, our two names.

When I turned around, Mom sucked in a breath. Sometimes this happened, where she’d see me or one of my brother’s faces, and something must have been familiar, because she’d be startled for a moment, before going back to her blank confusion.

But this time, she didn’t go back. This time she said, “Do you remember that? That was on the pier by the market.”

My first thought was I was only a baby. How could I remember?

Then my heart twisted as I understood. She thought I was Dad.

This happened sometimes, too. We’d call it a good day, because it was a remembering day, even if it was all mixed up. But I hated it. I hated being mistaken for my father.

“I don’t remember,” I said, my voice stiff. Why had I come here, anyway? What the hell had I done standing up Persephone? I was going to lose them, and all because I was being goddamned sentimental.

Because you wanted to see Mom. You wanted to ask her for help.

“Well, you have to remember Blakey’s laugh,” Mom said, laughing herself.

That knife that had been in my side since I’d left Cassandra slipped its way up now, slicing into my heart.

“He had the sweetest laugh. He was such a perfect little boy.”