As I watched them trudging up the staircase, I tried to dredge up Mom’s lecture on my childcare duties. I was to make sure Holly and Noelle had nutritious meals, schedules, and early bedtimes. That was easy, since it sounded like a replay of my own childhood. I wondered if multiple charts were required here, too.

In the kitchen I opened the refrigerator to see that the shelves were almost empty except for condiments, a tub of cheap margarine—hadn’t Wendy gotten the memo about the dangers of hydrogenated fat?—half a carton of eggs and most of a loaf of white sandwich bread that would probably look fresh and perky until Doomsday.

What I’d guessed was a pantry was actually the home of the stacked washer and dryer. The cupboards yielded little. I found a few basics, like sugar and salt, canned tomatoes, tuna and green beans. Wendy either cooked and planned so diligently she’d used up everything before her trip, or Wendy never cooked.

A peek inside a drawer by the stove answered that question. A stack of menus took up the valuable real estate where spatulas and whisks should have resided. Since this wasn’t the takeout mecca of Manhattan, most of these menus featured pizza.

I leaned against the refrigerator. “I guess I know what we’re having for dinner.”

The girls only liked cheese pizza with nothing added, which was no surprise. Nor was I surprised at their lack of enthusiasm for cleaning up afterward.

Now, though, my nieces were freshly showered, dressed in frilly white nightgowns from a drawer filled with more frilly nightgowns in cotton-candy colors, and ready to be tucked into bed.

Tucking in was a mystery of sorts. I thought back to my parents’ bedtime rituals. After extensive prayers at my bedside, Mom would read a short book, or when I was older, one chapter of a longer one. The lives of saints were her favorites, complete with carefully muted details about the horrifying ways they had died. It’s not easy being saintly.

Bedtime with Dad was very different. If he happened to be home early, he always tossed me into bed and mumbled prayers at lightning speed. Then he sat on the edge and told me stories about a little girl—coincidentally named Ryan—who took spectacular journeys to faraway places on a magic carpet.

Holly and Noelle’s room was small, with beds against opposite walls. Tonight I sat on Noelle’s and scooted to the bottom, so I could see them both. I had given up bedtime prayers years ago and doubted that Wendy, an Easter-and-Christmas Christian, engaged in this ritual. But I knew I’d better ask.

“Would you like to say your prayers together? And this is a yes or no question.” I cocked my head and waited.

Holly turned away from me, answer enough. “Noelle?” I asked.

“You do it.”

An answer of any kind was a surprise. Three whole words were a miracle. Of course now I was in trouble. I cleared my throat and knew enough to keep it short.