It's December 2016, and I am back home in Michigan. The house smells of urine: there is not always someone home to let the dog out, and my mom forgoes strong detergent on my father's soiled bedding to avoid irritating his skin. An artificial Christmas tree stands proudly in the family room, next to the TV and in front of the fireplace. Four senior-class pictures rest above the mantle—my siblings and I immortalized at age eighteen—next to an old family portrait and pictures of our childhood dogs, now dead. Matthew still lives at home, helping with my disabled father's care while the rest of us pursue lives in different cities.

I’m in the kitchen rummaging through the shelves. My mother went shopping and the pantry is full: chocolate pudding cups, Tostitos Scoops, instant oatmeal, Cheerios, Diet Coke, lunch meat, and a twelve-pack of Bud Light Lime-a-Ritas. I pour a bowl of dry cereal and dig in.

We moved into this house when I was seven. My mom worked the day shift, and my sister and I watched our brothers after school. She would call us multiple times a day: What are you doing? Are the doors locked? Is the meat on the counter? Where's Matt? Well, you better find him!

My dad worked late nights as an accountant. In the evenings, my mother shuttled us around to dance lessons and basketball practice. Dinner was fast-food or a box-prepared meal washed down with offbrand pop. My mother often ended the night on the couch, dozing to the television, reading a trashy novel, or drinking wine in the dark.

She sits next to me now and grimaces at my dry cereal. Is that gonna be enough to eat? I nod. She picks out a Cheerio and pops it in her mouth. Nice to have you home, Rachie. She stares off into space, chewing slowly. Her cheeks are peeling slightly, and red patches line the side of her face. Her eczema acts up during periods of extreme stress or fatigue; she stopped trying to cover it up with makeup years ago.