“A scene? I could call the police on you, Abigail. Taking him across state lines without my consent…”

“Actually,” Mom steps in, “It was Gillian and I who did that, if you’re going to read the riot act about it.”

Thanks a bunch, Mom. But at least she’s standing up for Abigail.

“No one asked you, Gloria,” Dennis says grimly.

He turns back to Abigail. “You’re one to accuse me of making a scene. I’m not the one who went AWOL; who abandoned my family. What do you think a judge will say to that, hm? You think they’d call you a fit mother?”

My sister’s expression flattens instantly. I feel the tension in the room take a beat, a sort of heat-shimmer around us.

“Now hold on a minute,” Mom says, but Abigail holds up her hand.

“Mom. Not now, please.” She fixes her eyes on Dennis. “Come upstairs, Dennis. Sam’s upstairs. You can talk to him there. And you and I can talk too.”

She gives Mom a please stay out of this look, and I put a hand on Mom’s arm as Abigail bangs the elevator call-button, and she and Dennis step in. They don’t say a word to each other, not looking at each other as the doors close. The elevator hums and the numerals start lighting up, and Mom lets out an angry sound.

“To think!” she says. “That man!”

“Abigail will be okay, Mom,” I say. “She’ll stand up for herself.”

Mom takes some breaths, still shooting furious looks at the elevator doors.

I glance back around at Oliver. He’s looking at me, and the look has so many layers. What I read there most of all is an appeal: Let’s not ever be them.

“I’m sure Gillian’s right, Gloria,” he says. “Abigail is a very strong woman.”

I flash back for some reason to a long-ago day in a neighborhood playground: high summer, I’m five or six. Abigail on the monkey bars, crowing as she makes it all the way across. Me trying to follow, getting stuck halfway, clinging with both hands to the bar, refusing to let go. Abigail, the strong one, watching in bewilderment as Dad detaches me from the bars.

“Mouse,” he’d laughed, unclamping my fingers and setting me down. “Oh, Mouse!”

Oliver’s seeking my gaze, trying to connect.

“Maybe we all need to take a minute after that,” he says. “Gloria, have you eaten? Gillian…?”

“I’m not hungry,” I say, turning my eyes away.

“Gillian—” he appeals.

“Oliver, I’m not hungry, okay?”

He looks down, nods.

“Well, there’s a diner two doors down, and I guess I’m going to go there. And”—he meets my eyes again—“I would love it, Gill, if you wanted to join me, when you’re ready, if you change your mind.”

When he’s gone, Mom looks at me.

“Gillian?”

I sigh.