I couldn’t let this go on any longer, the growing chasm between us. My dad always said, if there was one thing that could heal just about anything, it was food. His go-to remedy: Grandma’s homemade lasagna. Oliver had requested it when I asked what I could bring over, since even picky Eliot would eat my lasagna if it had enough melted mozzarella on top. It took over an hour to find my grandmother’s pasta-maker in the basement among the musty boxes and rat droppings, then another hour to deep-clean the metal contraption of the spiderwebs clinging to the gears. By then I had Grandma’s recipe book opened to the right page and all my ingredients ready for the all-day process of mixing and kneading the pasta dough, feeding the dough through the slits, and cranking it down into thin slices that would be layered between sauce and meat and cheese. Let me tell you, this exhausting effort was the fullest extent of my love.

After knocking on Felicity’s front door and waiting for several minutes, I checked the handle. Unlocked. I let myself in and headed straight to the kitchen. Not a soul in sight. The generations-old Corning Ware cornflower blue casserole dish I set on the counter looked tacky amid her classy modern kitchen décor.

The first floor was empty as I checked each room for the kids. A full-body hug from Eliot and wet kiss from Sydney soothed all manner of ailments, and I was ailing today. Especially after a sleepless night replaying Felicity’s wrath and my interaction with Austin and his psycho mother. I paused at the foot of the steps, staring up at the creepy stained-glass couple, leering snootily at everyone passing by. Upstairs the chatter of small voices drifted down the stairwell as I overheard Sydney’s Barbie doll reprimanding Eliot’s Doctor Strange action figure about how to properly treat a lady.

“No, Doctor Strange. You’re supposed to hold the door open!” Sydney squeaked in her best grownup lady impression.

With a careful stride, I avoided the creakiest steps as I headed up, hoping to surprise them. On my way to the kids’ playroom, I peeked into Vera’s bedroom, feeling the ache of regret all over again as my eyes grazed over where she had slept, studied, dressed. If only I could get her home safely, maybe Felicity would forgive me. Maybe the family could be whole again. I yearned to reach out and touch pieces of Vera, as if they connected me to her wherever she was.