During dessert, I passed on a slice of apple cake, choosing a chocolate rugelach because it didn’t require using utensils that might result in arm-against-arm contact with Finn. Conversation blessedly turned to subjects not requiring me to acknowledge him directly at all while I was still resenting his attendance in the first place.

The firm where Diego worked as a defense attorney had taken on a client who was charged with bribing his daughter’s way into admission to a fancy private high school. Despite not being the most righteous of cases to defend, it was very exciting in a “ripped from the headlines” way. Kate wasn’t thrilled with the long hours Diego would be working over the next month, but we collectively decided she would use the time away from her boyfriend to study for the bar.

Later, while our guests talked among themselves, I helped my mom get a head start with the cleanup in the kitchen, rinsing the dishes and handing them to her to place in the dishwasher. “Everything was delicious, Mom. So much better than last year.”

The previous Rosh Hashanah she’d had catered by Fairway, the supermarket, under the assumption it would be worth the extra cost to forgo cooking all day. The consensus was nothing beat my mom’s cooking—a talent not passed down to her daughter—and the prep was almost just as time-consuming.

“I aim to please, Squirt.”

I stopped rinsing and observed her stack the dirty utensils—handles up for knives and forks, and down for spoons. This level of conscientiousness was another trait she didn’t pass down, but her house meant her rules. “I was so overconfident about this damn story. I hate that I wasted so much of our…your…money, especially now.” I aggressively scrubbed the sticky remnants of honey off a plate.

“It was an investment in your future. Like all investments, there was a risk.” She closed the dishwasher door and leaned against it. “But why are you talking like it’s over?”

I turned the water off. “Because it pretty much is. In fact, I’m tempted to pack up my things and hop on the bus back here first thing in the morning. Why bother talking to more people? So far, I have a hodgepodge of material with no common thread. I seriously doubt talking to the owner of the ice-cream shop will make a difference. And she hates me,” I mumbled to myself. “Like you said, five hundred dollars isn’t enough to keep us in this apartment. It’s high time I get my head out of the clouds and start adulting for real.” The morning I’d prepared my pitch for Derek, so certain this story was it for me, felt like a lifetime ago.

“You are an adult!”

“Riiight. I live with my mother, who pays for my health insurance, and I work two part-time jobs with no room for career growth at either.”