“D’you think he’s all right in there?” Oliver says.

Sam’s taking a long time just to wash his hands. I hope he’s not crying in there or something. I don’t want to go out there and embarrass him.

“Just give him a minute,” I say.

When Sam rejoins us he glances around and sets his napkin neatly on his lap.

“Smells good,” he says. He just mutters it, barely looking up, but it still gives me a feeling of hope. I look at his head bowed over his food as he eats, the deep blond coloring he gets from my sister. She was always the striking one in the family. I tried not to mind that, growing up.

“So, Sam,” I say, as my nephew silently forks rigatoni into his mouth. “Oliver and I…we’re not really used to having a boy your age around. What do you like to do for fun at home?”

Sam swallows his mouthful of pasta and looks from Oliver to me. I want to tell him that this isn’t a trick question.

“Um. I like watching basketball. And playing video games.”

Oliver nods. “I used to play a lot of video games. Stuff you’ve probably never heard of.”

“Maybe you could play something together,” I suggest.

Sam frowns.

“Dad wouldn’t let me bring my Xbox. And I don’t have a second handset, anyway.”

Oliver waves his hand. “I’d only cramp your style. We do have cable though, so you can watch all the basketball games you want.”

Planting my nephew in front of the TV isn’t exactly what I was trying to encourage, but Sam nods.

“So, how long do you think I’ll be staying here?” he says then, putting down his fork and eyeing the two of us.

My heart skitters. I wish I knew how to answer that properly.

“I don’t know, Sam. I’m sorry.” I glance at Oliver. “If we knew what your mom’s plans were exactly…We just don’t know quite how long she plans to be away. But of course your dad will be back in a week.” I look at him pushing his pasta around his plate, and brighten my voice. “I’m glad we could make this into a little family visit though. Your grandma’s really looking forward to seeing you.”

Sam nods, and pushes the remaining pieces of pasta to the side.

“Thank you for dinner. May I be excused?”

I glance at Oliver, but he just nods to Sam.

“Sure, buddy. Don’t worry about it. Go do your thing.”

I shoot him a reproachful look. He’s practically encouraging Sam’s withdrawn ways.

When my nephew’s trudged out of the kitchen and upstairs, Oliver spears the last few pieces of rigatoni off Sam’s plate and into his mouth, then gathers the dishes.

This is going to be a long week.

*