I think of the miles I clock walking from our condo to the market to Joy’s school, the hours I spend in the gym, and the vacuum I push, the sheets I change, the dozens of shelves I wipe down to remove every last crumb each and every time Joy sees a single cockroach. Afraid of physical labor?

“I am not. I’d be happy to plant whatever needs to be planted while I’m here, and Joy would be glad to help. What you need to do is to make sure Anne is on board.”

He looks at me in surprise. I’m not usually as assertive with him. In this case, though, assertive is also practical, so I don’t take it back. And then, just as his eyes return to the road, my phone chimes. Joy would text, so I know it’s not her. Same with close friends. The realtors I work with know I’m away, unless it’s a new contact, which I wouldn’t want to miss. Lifting my phone, I shade the screen with a hand.

Margo? I re-angle the screen to make sure I’m seeing it right, but her name remains, which is worrisome. I’m usually the one who calls her, not the other way around, and the timing couldn’t be worse. If she’s calling, though, something may be wrong, so I answer.

“Hey. Everything okay?”

“Fine, great, actually, because I’m in the city. I thought I’d stop by.”

“In New York?” I ask in alarm and switch the phone to the far ear.

“Last minute girlfriend weekend. Joanie scored tickets to Hamilton, which I missed when it was in Chicago, so the three of us just took off. Are you free?”

Free? Omigod. If she could see me now, she wouldn’t be pleased. Nor would Dad, if he knew I was talking to my sister. Granted, he’s focused on the road, trudging along in his boat shoes, one foot striking pavement, then the next. There’s a deliberateness to it, like he wants to be sure he does it right. Trying not to watch, I wander toward the trio of mailboxes to give myself, my sister, and my phone more room.

“I’m not in the city,” I tell Margo softly. “I’m sorry. How long will you be there?”

“Just the weekend. Where are you?” she asks, indignant, like we’d had plans and I stood her up. Had it been anyone else, I’d be offended. But this is quintessential Margo, imperious to the core.

I get a mirror attitude in the other ear. Dad has followed me over. “Who is that?”

Rolling my eyes, as if the caller is no one special, I say into the phone, “You’re leaving Sunday?”

“Will you be back?”

“Before then? Noooo.” I drag out the word in honest regret. “I’m so sorry. I’d have loved to have you over.”

“Where are you?” she asks again.

“Who is that?” Dad repeats, this time in a voice that is too loud, too close, and too gruff.