Dear Milo

chapter 1.

My mother gave it a month before she signed me up for therapy. She'd said all the moping and staring off into the distance wasn't good for me or her, so it would be better if I talked to someone.

I knew it would happen. Daniel would've guessed, too. Our mother doesn't like feelings. She doesn't like talking about them or feeling them or acknowledging that they're there. Why would she, when she can pay someone else to deal with all our problems?

My mother clears her throat beside me, her hands light on the steering wheel. Her nails are red, a bright cherry red that shines like gloss. There's a half-ring of pink between her cuticle and where the nail polish starts. I think this has been the longest she's gone without making a salon appointment to fill them or get a new colour. That's the only way you'd be able to tell something's wrong in our lives, that something's missing. She's got her usual navy blue business suit on, her dark hair straightened and tight in a low bun. She's even wearing heels, though they're shorter than usual.

She looks normal, like she's off to work, to sit behind a desk or shout at assistants all day and only get home after midnight. She's all put-together, no hair out of place or wrinkle in her clothes. It's just her hands. The smallest detail that's off. She's actually sad, in her own way, I guess.

"Dr. Amin comes very well-recommended," my mother says, glancing over at me. Her voice is steady and informative, rolling like a wave approaching a shore made of glass. "She's excited to meet you. I spoke to her on the phone yesterday, just to tell her about our situation." I exhale sharply, raising my eyebrows and removing my chin from my hand to look at her.

"Our situation?" I scoff, smiling tightly.

She told me two nights ago about this appointment, saying that I need to talk to someone or I'll end up spiralling like Daniel did. I wanted to punch her for that. She knows nothing about what Daniel went through - she never cared to ask him, and now she wants to be a mother? Now she wants to take responsibility, 'be more active in my life'?

"Yes, our situation, Cadence," my mother repeats, braking harshly. My seatbelt tightens against my chest and I slump in my seat, looking back out the window. "He was your brother, but he was my son, too. This is affecting me just as much as it is you. I know you and your brother were close, and... and Dr. Amin can't replace that. But I'm trying here, for you."

I let my forehead fall against the glass, blowing hot air in front of me, fogging up the window, and trace a large X in the centre of the fading circle. I feel like screaming. I want to scream. I want to rip the steering wheel away from her stupid red hands and turn it to the left and veer off the road. I want to shake her until she notices that real trying, trying that would make me realize she cares, isn't this. I don't think she'd get it, even then.

"Please, for me," my mother sighs, flicking the turn signal and slowing down in front of a parking lot. "Talk to her. She's nice. I'm paying a lot for this, by the way. She should be good, so you won't have to try that hard."

The car rolls to a stop and I grab my bag from between my feet, setting it on my lap. I stare down at it, at the buttons pinned to the front pocket. They're all drawings of anime characters and band logos that I stole from Daniel's room for my first year of middle school. I've pinned them to each new backpack for the past five years. He's added a few more, as presents for my birthday or for recitals, or whenever I was nervous. I don't know how, but he always knew when I was stressing about something. I press my index finger to the newest button, a black music note against clouds. This one was meant for next week. I found it in his room, in a box of his things they'd pulled out of the car that night. He'd put it in a small cardboard box with my name scrawled on top in permanent marker. There was a card, too.