I called the Mandarin Oriental and ordered flowers and a bottle of champagne sent to their room. Yes, yes, it cost the earth. So what? I didn’t have children. I could afford it. “And for the card,” I asked the hotel clerk, “would you write, ‘To the best mother and sister in the world. Relax and enjoy. You deserve it. Love, Sadie.’ Thank you so much!”

The warm fuzzies I got were only slightly more fun than picturing their shock that I was so damn wonderful.

That night, after I’d made mac and cheese for Dad (it was easy for him to spear with his fork), Dad watched a documentary on the wolves of Yellowstone that made Pepper tremble with the call of the wild (or terror, but I was going with the former). I set up my easel in the little glass bump-out that abutted the living room, having made a run home for some things while Kit, the rather bitchy home health aide, was here earlier. She was efficient, but she wasn’t very nice. I’d have to help Mom find someone better.

But for now, all was well. Call me sentimental, but I was drawing a picture of my dad in charcoal. I wanted to capture him in one of his alert moments, with Pepper against him. His shirt was buttoned wrong, but in my picture, I’d fixed that, as well as the tuft of hair that just wouldn’t sit flat on the left side of his head, where he’d had his surgery.

Sometimes, a picture took on a life of its own, almost against the artist’s will. This was such a time. I mean, sure, I knew how to draw a human. I was nothing if not technically proficient, as a wretched professor had once told me. But the Dad in my drawing looked too sad, and lonely, and nothing I did was fixing that. Every line I added just seemed to emphasize the feeling of being lost.

Sometimes, the picture told the artist the truth.

A knock came on the door, and I answered it, expecting Caro.

It was Noah. And Mickey, holding the baby. “Hey!” I said.

“Yay!” said Mickey. “We came to see your dad, but we get you, too! Bonus points!”

“Come on in,” I said. Stepping aside, I glanced at Noah, feeling shy and blushy. His eyes. That hug. Curly hair. Et cetera.

“Hi, Mr. Frost,” Mickey said. “Oh, hi, doggy! Look, Marcus! A doggy! Woof woof!”

“Dog,” my father said.

“He’s talking so much,” I told them, giving Dad’s shoulder a squeeze.

Mickey deposited the baby on my father’s lap, and Dad held him. He smiled, even. There. Not lost or sad or lonely. My drawing was wrong.

“I hope it’s okay that we’re here,” Noah said.

“Yes, of course. It’s really nice of you.” My cheeks were hot.