“Seriously, get up,” my dad says, and sits down on my duvet. He’s in golf clothes and smells like fresh laundry. He whacks me on the head with a pillow.

“Stop!” I sit up, laughing, and block my face with my arms.

“I don’t know your phone code or I’d find a picture myself. Is yours face or finger ID?”

“I’m not giving you my phone. What do you need a picture for?” I ask.

“For your college applications,” he says, like this is perfectly reasonable.

“You don’t need to send a picture with a college application.”

“Dr. Wilson said we did. Joy, didn’t Dr. Wilson say we needed a photo?” he calls to my mother, who comes running.

“We need a photo. Yes,” my mom says. She’s wearing her usual weekend uniform: leopard-print running tights and a matching sports bra and no shirt. I stare at her midriff. To be clear, I don’t begrudge my mother her figure. I happily choose food. And free time. And my mental health.

“What is that?” my dad asks, pointing to my mother’s face, which is covered in a terrifying Korean sheet mask.

“It does good things to your skin. Dr. Roth said to use one every third week, so Carrie set a reminder on my calendar.”

“Huh.”

“Mom, your abs look insane,” I say.

“I know, right? Paloma has me doing a fitness cover shoot later. If you look closely, you can see some of them are painted on with tanner.” I squint, and sure enough, the lines appear hand drawn. Still, if you painted a six-pack onto my abs, they’d look like Hawaiian dinner rolls.

“Photo. For Dr. Wilson. Now.” My dad pulls up an email on his phone and squints at the small type. “Only requirements are you facing forward where we can see your face and neck.”

“Can someone please tell me why Dr. Wilson needs my photo, particularly one showing my neck?” I ask for a second time.

“I think it’s for some sort of profile,” my dad says, and my mom shakes her head in exasperation. Isla does this killer impression of mom yelling at dad: Richard, get that phone out of your face and listen to me for once. In all fairness, my dad is an epically bad listener, which is one of the many reasons we have Carrie. My parents have found a way to outsource all of the things married people usually nag each other about. That might be the secret to their mostly blissful union, come to think of it, enough money so that neither of them has to cook or clean or negotiate who picks up the dry cleaning or the kids.

“It’s for his website,” my mom says, elbowing him.

“I don’t want to be on his website,” I say.

“Stop being difficult,” my parents say in unison.