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Gwyneth Two weeks later, I’m forced back to reality. I’m forced to let go of the hope I held on to so tightly when Dad had his accident. Because the truth is, he’s not waking up and probably won’t. The doctor said that the more time he spends in a coma, the slimmer his chances are of coming out of it. And even though I’ve been visiting him every day, I can feel the gloomy cloud that hovers over his hospital bed. I can tell that my dad is probably not there anymore, no matter how much I talk to him and read to him and everything in between. And that’s just been too painful to think about, so I distracted myself with school before the summer break. And cleaning. I do that a lot when I’m anxious or stressed. I scrub floors and counters and dishes and the bathroom. In my head, I’m scrubbing my mind clean. Does it work? For a while, maybe, but not in the long term. Because the problems far outweigh the solutions. I thought myself strong enough to take it all—let it soak in and then vanish—b