It’s 1995, and the humid New York summer air makes your shirt stick to your back as you walk home from school, the straps of your backpack digging into your shoulders. You stop at every crosswalk, looking both ways at least five times, because you know if you don’t, John will lose his mind.

He’s waiting on the steps, arms folded, glasses slipping down his nose, scanning the street until he spots you. Only then does he let out a breath you can practically see leave his chest.

“Hi, Dad,” you say, trying to sound casual.

“Alright, love?” he asks, like he does every day.

“Yeah.”

You walk past him, but he ruffles your hair gently, and you let him, even though it’s embarrassing, because it makes the tightness in your chest ease a little.

That night, you sit cross-legged on the living room floor, flipping through an old photo album of Yoko, trying to remember how her laugh sounded, how her perfume smelled, how her fingers felt combing through your hair. You blink rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall.

John walks in, carrying two mugs of tea, one for him, one for you, because he insists you’ll drink it “when you’re older” but still makes it for you now.

You hesitate before asking, “Dad… can you tell me about your mum again?”

He stops, almost dropping the mugs, and you see it: that flicker of fear and sadness crossing his blue eyes before he blinks it away.

He sets the mugs down, lowering himself to the floor beside you, pulling the photo album into his lap.

“She was… she was somethin’ else, y’know,” he starts, his Scouse accent deepening when he talks about the past. “Her name was Julia. She was only seventeen when she had me, bit of a wild spirit, played the banjo, taught me my first chords. She’d dance around the kitchen, laughing, even when there wasn’t any music playing.”

You watch him, seeing the small smile tug at his lips, but his eyes stay sad, distant.

“Was she pretty?” you ask softly.

“Yeah,” he whispers, looking down. “She had this red hair, not fiery, but warm, like autumn leaves, y’know? She’d walk down the street and light it up.”

“What happened?” you ask, even though you know, because you need to hear him say it, need to understand why he can’t let you cross the street without holding your breath.

His jaw tightens. He swallows hard. “I was seventeen. She came over to see me, we were havin’ a good time, and then… she left. She was walkin’ home, just across the road, and a car hit her.”

Your throat tightens. “Did she… did she die right away?”

He closes his eyes, rubbing them under his glasses. “Yeah. Gone just like that. One minute she was there, and the next, she wasn’t. And I never got to say goodbye.”

You’re quiet, pressing your fingers into the carpet. The room feels heavy with everything neither of you say out loud, with everything you both lost.

“Is that why you’re so scared when I cross the street?” you whisper.

His head snaps up, eyes meeting yours, wet and shining under the lamplight. “Yeah, love. That’s exactly why.”