“When the DNA test is sent back to you,” Jules said, “you get to see your percentages. You three will have different percentages of Norwegian, English, Greek, and French from your parents. Plus, there could be some slinky surprises in there, at least I hope. Wouldn’t that be fun? You three don’t get the same blend. Evie and I will get different percentages, too.”

“I don’t need my percentages,” my mother said, her hands clasped together so tightly her knuckles were white.

“I don’t, either,” Aunt Camellia said. She shook slightly. “Percentages are for math, not family.”

“We know who we are,” Aunt Iris said. Her voice was rigid. “This is ridiculous. Insensible! There’s no need for a test.”

I shared a concerned glance with Jules. What the heck? Why the resistance?

“You said that you girls have already done it?” my mother asked, threading her fingers rhythmically in and out. “You mailed it back?”

“Yes, we did. Jules mailed it. Why? It’s interesting. That’s all it is. Tells us something about our ancestry. Maybe Jules and I will find out that we’re part Chinese.”

“And if we find out that Evie is part Italian, it’ll account for why she likes spaghetti and lasagna so much. We’re already predicting she’s part witch.”

We turned to smile at our mother and aunts.

They were not smiling at us.

“No, thank you,” my mother said. She collapsed back in her chair, her face drawn.

“I’m going to skip it,” Aunt Iris said. “The government knows enough about me already. They’re invasive. When they have my spit, what will they do with it? Steal the information? Sell it to the highest bidder? Use it to determine what I’m going to get sick with and die of so my insurance company can deny me coverage? Tell me they can link me to a crime I haven’t committed? No. I’m not giving my spit away. They say that you’ll find out more about your ancestors, but they’re storing your DNA so they can use it. Like Big Brother. 1984 here we come!”

“I say no, too,” Aunt Camellia said. “We’re a family. That’s all we need to know. We share the same familial auras. We share the same genetic spirits. We share the same emotional tie to our combined love.”

“Please?” Jules said. “We can all compare.”

“No,” my aunts and mother said altogether, with raised, fraught voices.

“Okay,” I said, trying to turn down the heat. “It’s okay.”

“Sure,” Jules said, softer.

“Girls,” my mother said, pressing both hands to her pretty, white bell-shaped hair, “it’s been lovely, but I’m tired.” And with no hugs, no kiss on the cheek, no “I love you,” she walked out. I swear she wobbled. My aunts made their excuses, thanked me for dinner, and hurried out after my mother. No hugs there, either.