“Good night, Bea,” I say before leaving. “Good night, Camille,” she replies. As I wait for her to fall asleep, I busy myself cleaning the kitchen, preparing my meal list for tomorrow, and doing some light doodling on my notepad in the kitchen. Hearing Jack’s footsteps upstairs, I fight the urge to march up there and give him a piece of my mind. I want to yell at him to snap out of it. Stop being such a ghost. Be a father. But then again, who am I to judge? I fell apart and stopped living the day my dad died too.
