I talk to my therapist through a screen and tell her about how me, Mom and Dad went to Six Flags when I turned eight. This was shortly before Mom started hiding bottles in more obvious places and Dad followed through on his threat to drive until nobody knew his name. Dad tried to win me a stuffed killer whale because I pointed at it. He tossed the rings and he couldn't do it and he tossed the rings again and he couldn't do it and he couldn't do it until it wasn't even about the killer whale anymore. "It's a sign, hun," Mom said and Dad said, "A sign that this is all bullcrap" and finally the guy behind the blinking counter felt bad because it was my birthday and gave us a consolation prize which was a coupon for a free Pepsi. We took the coupon to a vendor and the Pepsi came in a plastic Yosemite Sam cup and when I finished the soda, Dad held out his hand so he could chuck the cup and I said, "No way" and still have it on my desk for loose change.

In the car, Mom said, "What was everyone's favorite part?"

I said mine was the log ride because the sun was a frying pan and the water felt good on my skin.

"Amen," Dad said. "Plus your mother dried out quicker than usual."

Mom said, "Well, my favorite part was watching Dad make the ring toss guy rich."

"It's called making an effort," Dad said.

"Step right up folks," Mom said, "It's Ronald's Royal Ripoff. Ron Ron's Real Real Bad Deal. Slick 'n Shitty Rings by Ron."

"It's okay, Dad," I said from the back seat, "We still love you even though you never win."

Mom laughed with a wheeze, so I laughed with a giggle, because when you're eight, it's hard to tell a wise crack from a fracture. And even though Dad didn't laugh, I said, "I wish this day would go forever" and the funniest thing is that if it did? Forever would have to include the rest of the day where we got home and the laughter stopped altogether because Dad went to put the SPF 50 away above the dryer and found the first three empty pints lined up with their labels peeled off. Dad said, "What's all this?" and Mom said, "I'd say it's about as obvious as a fixed game, wouldn't you?" and Dad said, "Just tell me why" and Mom said, "Because this can't be all there is" and the doors started banging like fireworks and I went to my room and pretended I couldn't hear any of it and the cake melted on the counter and if I ever want to go back to that day, all I have to do is pick up the cup on my desk and shake it so the change rattles like a ring that kisses the lips of impossible bottles and falls to the floor where it was always meant to be.

My therapist nods sagely and then gives all the clichés about blaming myself, about trying not to carry the weight. I tell her about how I saw Dad over Thanksgiving, that he's gone stoop-shouldered and gray, that I saw Mom over Christmas, which, even at a decade sober, is still the hardest time of her year, and how they communicate to each other through me like we're in middle school. By now there is no venom, only muted well wishes and the meekness of regret.

When my therapist asks me if I can find something good in any of this, perhaps a source of strength, I look at Yosemite on my desk and force a smile and make a joke about how it's taken nearly thirty years of failing over and over and over, but that I think I'm finally able to read the temperature of a room. She laughs like I hoped she would, and I laugh too, because it's easier than what I don't say: that I've finally come to understand it's not whether you win the game, but whether you have the strength to keep playing when you know for certain you are lost; that I'm grateful to have inherited the capacity to comprehend, but that if history is any indication, strength is something I'll have to fight for, again and again and again.

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