My hand trembling, I flicked on my bedside lamp. A wave of fresh sorrow snagged my heart, a real weight pressing against my chest in both dream and reality. This ache went beyond missing Jackson; it was mourning stripped of blinders, a permanent lump in my throat. Part of me wanted to run into Mom’s bedroom now and ask her for reassurance. But she needed what little rest she could grab after yesterday’s taxing visit to the doctor. Besides, all I truly wanted was Jackson’s arms around me. Too rattled to sleep and too scared about what I might dream next, I forced myself from my bed, shrugged out of my sweat-dampened T-shirt, and scrounged for a sweatshirt on my closet floor. I figured now was as good a time as any to tackle our finances. Carefully, so I didn’t rouse Mom on the off chance she was dozing, I tiptoed past her bedroom and downstairs to Dad’s office. Despite the family photos on his imposing cherrywood desk and the wall of fame dedicated to his diplomas from college and business school, I didn’t sense Dad in here.
