Two hours later, we turn off the highway and switch on the GPS. We’ve been here—we’ve been invited here—exactly once since Abigail and Dennis moved back from the West Coast, so it’s not like either of us remember the way that well. We drive through the quiet streets, and into their lush, leafy Westchester neighborhood that fills me with a mix of envy and discomfort. Big houses with mansard roofs, still bedecked with tasteful—oh so tasteful—Christmas decorations. Porsches and Teslas and BMWs. Even the dogs are designer.

We take a left, then a right, then we’re turning onto their gravel driveway and the house is in front of us, ivy curling across it like some kind of artist’s rendering of the American Dream. An oblivious, self-congratulating kind of American Dream, maybe, but I admit I still feel its pull. All it needs this time of year is for some robins to descend and start singing a chorus.

“Has it gotten bigger?” Oliver says. “Or is it just me?”

“It does kind of feel that way, doesn’t it?”

He kills the engine, and we walk up to the front door and ring the bell. I feel oddly small in front of it. Then the door swings open.

“Sam!”

He’s probably a head taller since I saw him last, and there’s so much of Abigail in his face that in the circumstances it feels a little startling. His chaotic halo of pale hair reminds me of hers, and he looks at us now from eyes just a few shades darker than my sister’s, with a flattened gaze that makes me shift my weight and smile too widely.

“Good to see you!” I say, my heartiness falling flat even to my own ears.

Sam runs his eyes over us, one hand on the door, the other buried in the pouch of his grey hoodie.

“I’ll get Dad,” he says.

He does it the usual way: by going to the foot of the stairs and hollering, “Dad, they’re here!” But somehow even his yell sounds flat and emotionless. I glance at Oliver, who gives me a don’t look at me shrug.

The clatter of heavy brogues sounds from upstairs, and Dennis rounds the landing. Classical, aquiline features, broad shoulders, and sandy hair that, unlike Sam’s and Abigail’s, sits neatly in place.

“Gillian! Oliver! Sorry to keep you. Please come in.”

He leads the way into the kitchen while Sam slinks off back upstairs—probably for the best, so we can speak freely—and gestures for us to take a seat. There’s a bottle of what looks like an expensive French red open on the bar behind him and he pushes a couple of glasses our way.

“Driving.” Oliver shakes his head.