“You said his flight’s delayed,” Abigail says. “It’s still not scheduled, right?—and it’ll take him at least twenty-four hours to get home. I can get in the car with Sam the moment his flight takes off. We’ll still beat him home.”

I pause.

“But Abigail…I don’t know if he’ll like this. This whole idea.”

She hesitates.

“You don’t need permission, Gillian.”

I feel my eyes widen.

“You mean not tell him?”

“I’ll tell him,” Abigail says eventually. “I’ll tell him once you’re on the plane.”

“If,” I say, trying to hold my ground, though it already feels like I’ve conceded too much.

“If you’re on the plane,” she says quickly.

“Abigail…”

“Please, Gillian,” she says.

I close my eyes, trying to weigh it all in my befuddled brain. What’s to be gained and what’s to be lost. And I think of Mom earlier, folded in on herself at the kitchen table. Afraid of losing Abigail, afraid of losing Sam. I glance towards the living room door.

“If we come, Mom’s coming too,” I say. The words supply themselves before I can ask myself whether they’re wise.

“No.” Abigail’s voice is curt. “I have nothing to say to her, Gillian.”

“I understand,” I say. “And you have every right to feel those feelings. But if you want me to bring Sam, that’s how it’s happening. We’re doing this as a family.”

She doesn’t say a word; she doesn’t have to. I feel her fury bouncing along the telephone wires. The silence simmers.

“Gillian,” she repeats. “I don’t have anything to say to her.”

“That’s okay,” I say. “You don’t have to.”

Abigail’s silence lasts a moment longer.

“The flight’s at five-thirty,” she says at last. “Text me if you’re coming.”

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Nineteen

Oliver keeps glancing sidelong at me as he drives us to the airport: Mom and Sam in the back, me in the passenger seat beside him. He took me aside before we left the house.

“Gillian…” He put his hand on my arm. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

It was a laughable question. Of course I wasn’t sure. But I’d spoken to Sam and my nephew’s reaction had been instant.

“I want to go.” He’d sat up on his bed, looking at me with a defiance that reminded me of his mother.

“Sam…” I’d hesitated. “You know that…it might not be like you expect. You might be disappointed.”

He’d looked at me.

“I want to go. Mom met her. I want to meet her.”