Chapter 1

I came home from work and found my fifteen-year-old daughter’s bed in the hallway.

My husband had given her bedroom to his sister’s son without asking either of us.

The mattress leaned against the wall. The bed frame had been taken apart and stacked beneath it. Three cardboard boxes held Emma’s clothes, schoolbooks, and art supplies.

Emma sat on the living room couch with her backpack at her feet. Her pillow and one of my old blankets were beside her.

Mark came out of the kitchen.

“Lisa and Mason need somewhere to stay,” he said. “It happened quickly.”

Lisa was Mark’s younger sister. She had separated from her husband that morning and brought her fourteen-year-old son to our house.

“That doesn’t explain why Emma’s bed is out here.”

“Mason needs privacy. He’s fourteen.”

“So is Emma supposed to sleep on the couch?”

“Only for a few nights. She understands.”

“Why isn’t Mason sleeping on the couch?”

Mark glanced toward Emma before lowering his voice.

“Emma still has a home. Mason just lost his.”

As if having a home meant she could not lose her place inside it.

I walked over to Emma.

Her phone charger was plugged in beside the couch. A plastic basket containing her toothbrush, shampoo, and hairbrush sat beneath the coffee table.

She had already prepared for the night.

“It’s only for a few nights,” I told her.

“I know. Aunt Lisa needs it more.”

The words stopped me.

I had said them before.

Aunt Lisa needs Dad tonight.

Mason is having a hard time.

We’re luckier than they are.

Emma reached into the box nearest the couch and pulled out her sketchbook.

“What are you drawing?”

She opened to one of the final pages. The number 32 was written in the top corner.

Beneath it, she began drawing a mattress against a wall. Then three boxes. Then the couch where she would sleep.

“What does thirty-two mean?”

Her pencil stopped.

For a moment, I thought she might close the book.

Instead, she handed it to me.

The previous pages were filled with small numbered drawings.

Number nine showed an empty chair at Emma’s school art show. A paper sign marked DAD hung from its back.

Mark had promised to attend. Lisa’s car had broken down, and he had gone to pick her up.

I had told Emma that her aunt really needed him.

Number sixteen showed two unused movie tickets. Mark had taken a call about Mason arguing with another boy at school and left before the movie began.

I had promised Emma they would go another weekend.

They never did.

Number twenty-one showed the brochure for the summer art camp Emma had wanted to attend. The date was crossed out.

We had lent the money to Lisa for moving expenses.

I had told Emma there would always be another summer.

Number twenty-seven was a birthday cake with two plates beside it instead of three. Mark had gone to help Lisa move furniture after promising to be home for dinner.

I remembered Emma saying she was not hungry.

I also remembered telling her not to make her father feel worse.

There were thirty-one drawings before the bed in the hallway.

Some I remembered immediately. Others were so small that I had forgotten them—a canceled breakfast, an empty seat, a box of paints returned to a store.

Emma had not forgotten any of them.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were keeping track?”

“I did tell you when I was upset.” She looked down at her hands. “You always explained why they needed him more.”

My fingers tightened around the sketchbook.

“So I started drawing it instead,” she said.

Mark was still standing near the kitchen. He could not see the pages from where he was.

Lisa appeared briefly in the hallway, holding a folded towel. She looked tired and embarrassed.

“Mason didn’t know where else to put Emma’s boxes,” she said.

“It’s fine,” Emma answered before I could speak.

She took the sketchbook back and finished shading the mattress.

I had thought I was softening every disappointment. I had only taught her how to swallow it quietly.

Emma closed the sketchbook.

“Don’t worry, Mom. I already know how this works.”

She spread the blanket across the couch, placed the sketchbook beside her pillow, and pushed the basket farther underneath the coffee table so no one would trip over it.

Page thirty-three was still blank.

I would make sure it stayed that way.