170 — “Thank you, my little angel.”

“Used to be?” I look at Desmond softly, afraid to touch on such a delicate subject, squeezing his hand reassuringly.

Desmond sighs, looking to the other corner of the room.

“Art’s death broke us. My mother especially. The thing about depression is that it always seems to sneak up like a shadow. It’s there, even when you think you’re over it, even when you’re fine and can’t feel it... It only tak