Stormy Weather

I arrive at my parents’ home. My mother greets me rather cheerfully. I head upstairs to my parents’ bedroom, where my father is spending most of his time. He is in bed, under the covers. He smiles and says “Hello.” We chat amiably. He asks me about my date.

We feign normalcy. Tempests of depression, fear, frustration and helplessness rage in each of us, just below the surface. We are all lousy liars.