“Martin. Renn. Ever! Now that’s a face I haven’t seen in a while here.” He hurries to show us to our table, asking me all about Boston—Is it rainy? Is it beautiful? Is it as expensive as here? It’s like I never left. Like I am back in an old neighborhood. Despite feeling devastated on the inside, I feel the first green sprout of hope pushing through the ash inside me.

It’s called hope, bitch. And it was always there. You just had to give it a little nudge, Pippa’s voice laments in my head.

I’m still in a daze when George takes our order. Because I’m currently incapable of reading a menu without bursting into tears (thanks, Dom), I ask for my childhood Sunday staple—the hash brown sandwich. I’m not surprised when Renn and Dad order their favorites too. Renn goes for a double cheeseburger with crinkle-cut fries, and Dad asks for a big Cobb salad with extra bacon. In the same breath, Dad adds, “And the usual for the missus.”

“She does like her pumpkin-spice pancakes.” George doesn’t write anything in his pad. He remembers everything by heart.

“You’re ordering for Mom?” I cut my gaze to Dad, weirded out and oddly touched by the gesture.

He shrugs. “Every Sunday. It’s a family tradition, remember?”

Yes. I remember us coming here every Sunday when she was alive. I didn’t think they still did that.

“You and Renn still go here every week?” I hear the surprise in my voice. Also the hurt. I have no right to be offended. They’ve been here all along, begging me to join them.

“Yup.” Renn takes a noisy slurp of his fountain soda.

“And what do you do with the pumpkin pancakes afterward?” I look between them, curious.

Renn sighs, his eyes dimming. “Look around you, Ev. It’s San Francisco. There’s always someone who’d be happy to receive a free hot meal.”

Our food arrives quickly, hot and fresh, along with cornbread and yellow, thick butter that melts on your tongue. The butter transports me to memory lane. To Mom smearing it on the tip of my nose and making a face, causing me to laugh.

I’m surprised to find that I’m more exhilarated by the memory than hurt and pained by it.

The three of us eat and slide into easy conversation. I have a feeling my dad is anxious—almost starstruck—to see me here, in the flesh. I now understand that it is possible that I have mistaken his abrasiveness and lack of responsiveness as him being uninterested, when really, he is just deeply hurt by my absence.

I try to seem upbeat, even though it is draining. I guess I’m trying to prove myself to them. That I’m worthy of their love, even after what’s happened.