“Shooting up like a bean sprout,” Mom says, stepping back from Sam again to look at him afresh. She’s clearly aglow, and I try to forgive myself the tiny pinch of envy. Mom has softened so much over the years. I see that joy on her face now that older people get when they’re in the company of the young—the truly young, not twenties-and-thirties kind of young—like just the sight of Sam quenches some kind of thirst in her. But Abigail and I never got greeted like that, hugged like that. It felt like Mom was always checking us over, inspecting us, making sure we wouldn’t let ourselves down in any way. Her little brand ambassadors.

She took her duty as a parent very seriously, I don’t mean to undervalue that. She worked hard to make us into good people. But seeing the easy way she enfolds Sam in her arms now, like nothing is expected of him except that he continue to just be…I won’t lie, it gives me a little pang.

I don’t know. Maybe if I had a kid I’d be vigilant like Mom was too, always looking for something to correct, some flaw to diagnose and fix.

But will you ever find that out?

I push the savage thought away. I can’t deal with it now.

“Coffee, Mom?”

“That would be lovely, dear.”

I put on the kettle and she maneuvers the slices of caramel apple pie onto plates. Cake for breakfast definitely wouldn’t have flown back in my and Abigail’s day, but there you go.

Sam disappears to wash his hands before eating again—he may not be that into conversation, but he’s sure into hygiene—and Mom glances at me.

“Did you call this morning?”

I nod. I left Abigail a voicemail and a text. No response.

“It’s Monday, Gillian. How long do you think she plans to keep this up?”

It’s odd the way Mom says it, as though Christmas weekends are a great time for disappearing but Mondays are just inappropriate. I take her point though. How long can this go on?

Sam walks back into the room, and Mom pushes the plate of pie his way.

“How are you holding up, dear? This is all very disruptive, isn’t it? I’m sure you’re very upset with your mother.”

“Mom—” I say.

“Always so restless,” she goes on. “It was always in her.”

“Sam,” I say. “Would you mind fetching us some napkins? They’re over there.” I indicate the shelf above the silverware and my nephew un-slumps himself from his chair without making eye contact. I give Mom a look as he pads across the kitchen.

Stop it, I mouth at her.

“Well, who should he blame, himself?” Mom mutters back, mutinous, but she’s quiet when Sam comes back to the table.