“Since then, I’ve been doing my best to make sure everyone has a fair trial, whether they are guilty or not. I always see little bits of humanity in my clients—little bits that represent things I see in myself. In you.” Her eyes are sad.
“You’ve always been an idealist—a perfectionist,” she continues. “It’s one of the many things I admire about you. I know you think I never should have taken this case. I know it feels like that would have been the right thing to do, especially given the harassment that our family has dealt with because of my decision. That said, one of the reasons I became a lawyer—one of the reasons I still am a lawyer—is because I truly believe that everyone deserves a fair trial. I’m not going to let anyone tell me I can’t do my job. And I know you and Gwen are strong enough—brave enough—to deal with whatever those people throw at you. Maybe you think it’s not fair of me, putting you both in that situation to begin with, but I have convictions too.”
She pauses for a moment. “As you get older, I hope you can remember that people aren’t just the sum of their mistakes. The world isn’t black-and-white—the best thing you can do for yourself is to look at the spaces between those poles, to see that extremes aren’t useful to anyone. Your dad is starting to realize that, but for years, he couldn’t. Not about himself, or about anyone else. You remind me of him sometimes.”
I tense at the mention of my dad. “I’m nothing like him.”
She nods. “I get it. I know it hasn’t been an easy few years with him.”
I mutter, “Understatement.”
“I know a lot of things have fallen on you that you shouldn’t have had to deal with. Helping out around the house, driving your sister places, all of it. I appreciate it more than you know, Zach. And your dad does too.” She sighs. “He’s been trying, though. I know it feels like it’s too little too late.” She takes a deep breath. “But I think you deserve to know—he’s suffered from depression for years.”
My jaw clenches. I knew that; of course I knew that—but this is the first time I’ve heard it said out loud. I don’t like how it makes me feel: a churning mix of guilt and anger and worry and fear. I squint down at my hands, limp in my lap, blinking hard.
“Hey.” My mom’s hand wraps around mine for a moment, and I look up, surprised. Her eyes are worried. “This is hard to talk about, isn’t it?” I shrug. She shakes her head. “We should have talked about it more, over the years. I should have. Trying to balance everything—work and bringing in money for our family, and you guys, and your dad…” Her eyes mist. It’s the closest to crying that I’ve ever seen her come. “I’m sorry if I haven’t handled it well. If he hasn’t. But you have to understand—depression is a beast. He’s still there, under it, and now that he’s finally getting some help and taking the right medication…I’m sure you’ve noticed he’s been trying to engage more?”
I nod, reluctant to agree, but thinking back on all the knocks on my door over the past month, the times he’s popped his head into my room. The times I dismissed him.
My mom leans back in the chair and grows quiet, and in the silence, I realize this is the most we’ve ever discussed my dad.
“May was the one who vandalized our house all those times.” The words are out before I can stop them.
She raises her eyebrows. “May? Your friend who was here for dinner?”
I nod.
She clears her throat. “Ah. She told you that?”
“Yeah.” My voice sounds rough and gravelly. “At that memorial assembly. She gave this speech, and then when I tried to go help her, I guess she decided she needed to come clean or something? I don’t know. I haven’t talked to her—I’m not going to talk to her.” I growl the last word; I sound angrier than