I sped on the freeway and drove an hour and a half north to confront my father in Temecula.

Normally, I loved going home, but not today when my anxiety was burning through my body. How could he take my college money—money I had earned on my own? And why? Was it a gambling debt? I’d worked so hard to graduate on time. The mere thought of having my entire future destroyed because I’d trusted my father was unbearable.

Our home was nothing extravagant, just a simple three-bedroom, two-bath, ranch house. But there was comfort knowing I could return to the place where I’d taken my first steps, spent merry Christmases, and had learned how to dance from my mom.

My hometown wasn’t well-known—it had a few vineyards, and a bunch of motocross racers and UFC fighters lived there. But it had a strong community network—it was a place Ronald Reagan made famous by praising its hardworking citizens for rallying together to build a sports park.

As I pulled on our street, I noticed that our grass was unusually brown and patchy—more than was even normal in this drought. The trim on the door was faded, and the annuals I had planted in spring had already wilted. Even so, our bright pink crape myrtle was in full bloom and the lone avocado tree was bearing fruit.

I grabbed my bag, and as I headed up the driveway, my dad greeted me at the door. He wore his classic uniform of a wrinkly flannel shirt and worn jeans, and his strong, woodsy cologne mixed with his alcohol-spiked breath quickly hit my nostrils. His face was unshaven and his salt-and-pepper hair was unkempt. I winced—I hated seeing him so broken. In my memories, my father had always been strong, proud, and attractive. I knew he blamed himself for my mom’s suicide, no matter how many times I told him there was nothing we could’ve done.

He quickly surveyed my face. “Don’t give me that look; I’m fine.”

Every muscle in my body tensed. I followed him inside the house.

“You look wrecked. Why did you take my money?”

He paused, his eyes pained.

I knew that look.

“Now, Dad. Spill it.”

He remained silent. I forced myself to remain calm and not blow up at him. I headed into the kitchen to start the coffeemaker. Bills were piled near the telephone, and a few boxes were packed against the wall—as if he was planning on fleeing. “Did you read an organizing book or something?”

“No.” He gazed out the window at the peek-a-boo vineyard view.

“Why are your things packed?”

“Just doing some cleaning.”

I leveled him with my eyes.

He let out a sigh. “Okay. You got me.”

Fuck. I knew that tone.

“What’s going on with you? Where the hell is my money? The truth, please.”

Beads of sweat pooled on his neck.

“I’m bankrupt. I hadn’t paid the property taxes and was behind on our mortgage so I used the money to catch up. The bank was going to foreclose on our home.”

I clenched my fist, and my vision became cloudy. “How on earth are you bankrupt? You had a six-figure advance for your last book. Didn’t you invest?”

“That book deal was five years ago. The critics loved it but it was no bestseller. I earned out my advance and that was that. I need a hit.”

I poured coffee into two mugs, debated emptying the pot on my father’s hand. My dad by no means lived an extravagant lifestyle. We had always lived within a budget, which was probably why it was easy for me to adjust back to being a starving college student after my brief time as a starlet.

But my house, our home, meant the world to me. It was more than a roof over our heads. I could still hear my mother’s voice echo down the hallway, I could still picture her tending to the garden, I could still inhale the scent of her perfumed clothes.

He continued his excuses as I struggled to remain calm.

“I’ve approached everyone I can think of to write a biography, but either they’re already working with a writer, or my agent doesn’t think we could get a big enough advance from a publisher.” His voice was choked with emotion but I refused to pity him.

My mind immediately flashed to Grady. If he wrote a war memoir, it would be a bestseller. He’d told me he had no desire to write one, but I wondered if he would ever change his mind.

“So you stole from your own daughter? I need that money for tuition. I won’t graduate. It’s my money. How fucking dare you? I can have you arrested.”

“I know, I’m sorry. My agent assured me that this celebrity would choose me to write his book, so I thought I could take the money out of the trust and deposit it back before you ever noticed. It was wrong of me and I don’t blame you if you hate me, but I didn’t want to tell you. I’ll figure this out, I promise.”

I was not reassured. Rage flashed through me. “Can’t you sell the house and move somewhere else? That’ll buy you some time until you find your next subject.” The second the words left my lips, hollowness filled my core. My home. The place I’d escaped to when my face had been plastered on every tabloid in America, the community that had embraced me when everyone else turned their back on me.

“Even if I sell the home it won’t help. I’m underwater on the mortgage, and I’d need to find a new place to live. I have three months of expenses left with the money I took from you, and then I have nothing.”

Memories rushed back of picnicking with my parents at the duck pond, exploring the candy and root beer shops in quaint Old Town. My childhood had been happy—I’d never had a clue that my mom was in such private pain. And my parents always seemed so in love. I had dreamt of having my own happy marriage one day—but now that image was shattered. My mom wasn’t content—she was miserable. If I had read her so wrong, how could I trust anyone?

“How much do you owe?”

He started speaking rapidly. “Maybe it’s best if we lose the home. Who knows how long I’ll be around anyway?”

“Is that supposed to be comforting? How much debt do you have?”

“Forty-seven thousand dollars.”

Forty-seven thousand dollars? We were screwed. Royally screwed. I could never come up with that kind of money, unless I went back on Dancing under the Stars for a season. And that was completely out of the question. I hadn’t danced in years and was completely out of practice. There had to be another way.

“I don’t want to lose this house, Dad. We have so many wonderful memories here. Do you remember the time that Mom found that white bunny in our backyard? Our neighbor wanted to feed it to the coyotes. But Mom nursed him back to health. She loved little Latte.”

My dad’s eyes narrowed and a vein popped in his neck. “I hated that rabbit—another one of your mom’s projects that she started but then abandoned when she lost interest. I ended up taking care of that thing.”

I slammed my coffee mug down. “Why do you do that? Every time I mention her, you either dismiss me or get enraged. We had good times, happy times. Why can’t we talk about her?”

“Because she left us! Suicide is selfish. She didn’t care about or love us or she wouldn’t’ve done it!”

I raised my hand and slapped him, the tight sting of my palm shocking me. “How dare you! She was not selfish. She was sick! How can you not see that? She did love us—she probably thought we were better off!” I was completely stunned by how ignorant people were about suicide. I admit I’d thought the same things my father just said, that she didn’t love us, that she was selfish. Thank God I’d educated myself. I just wished my father would try to understand. Try to forgive.

My father didn’t say anything to me. He didn’t need to. He exhaled and his hand started shaking.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have slapped you.”

“It’s okay, I probably deserved it. I just miss her.”

And that was the first time my dad admitted to me that he missed her.

I didn’t know what to say. The intersection of anger, hurt, and resentment brewed inside me. “Why didn’t you tell me about the house sooner? Can’t you take another job? Anything?”

“You don’t think I’ve applied for everything? No one wants to hire a middle-aged man. I just need a chance and I can turn this around. Just one more hit.”

Could I dare ask Grady? He would say no, and he didn’t seem to want anything to do with me. He hadn’t even asked for my number. What was I going to do? Stop by his apartment?

Maybe I could contact him through Facebook, though he didn’t even have a searchable profile, just a page.

No, I couldn’t do that. I didn’t even know Grady. And I’d ran out on him.

There was one other person I could ask.

“Don’t worry, Dad. It’ll work out. I’ll pray for a miracle.”

He exhaled and his eyes looked up. He hugged me. “Thank you. I’m really sorry I took your money.”

I racked my brain. I could apply for a school loan. Or take a one-quarter leave to figure this out. But one thing was certain—I could only rely on myself.