Emily stopped mid-step. Frank’s mother was a perfectly nice woman, but in truth the only thing she and Emily had in common was Frank. However, at around this point in any argument, Frank dragged the poor woman into the discussion. The minute he’d left for college, his mother had taken it upon herself to straighten his room. His closet. His drawers. She’d thrown away his treasured comic books. X-Men #1. Spider-Man. Miracleman. She’d tossed his Voltron and He-Man and Star Wars action figures along with a pile of Transformers.

“Your mother—” Emily began.

“I know,” Frank said with an indulgent smile. “She can’t help herself.”

“You’re the one who can’t help yourself,” Emily shot back. “You dragged that . . . that . . . useless monster of a thing down here and left it propped up. Precariously. An accident waiting to happen.” She turned and stared down at the piles of stuff that crowded the stairs and filled the basement. At the newly acquired portfolio that was still lying on the floor. “Who in their right mind needs this much crap? There’s so much, and even you can’t get to it. So what’s the point? It’s a sickness.”

Frank looked stunned. “So now I’m sick?” He pushed past her into the laundry room and then turned back. “I’m fine. You’re the one who’s allergic . . .” His voice died.

Was he really dragging their fertility test results into an argument about his crap? Emily’s eyes brimmed with tears as she managed the last few steps on her own and followed Frank into the kitchen. He opened the freezer, got out an ice cube tray, and slammed it into the sink. Some ice skittered across the floor. He grabbed a dish towel and scooped up a handful of cubes. He offered Emily the makeshift ice pack. She stared at it.

“Just so you know,” Emily said, “I hate your crap. I hate all of it. I hate that you can’t throw anything away. Or give any of it away. I hate that you can’t leave other people’s crap at their yard sales. And it makes me crazy knowing how much of it you’ve dragged into our attic. Into our garage. Into our basement. It feels like it’s growing. Breeding!” She took a ragged breath. “Even if we’re not.”

3

FRANK REARED BACK as if he’d been struck. Emily was stunned, too. Those final words had burst out raw and uncensored. Frank dropped the ice pack on the kitchen table and stormed out of the house, slamming the back door behind him. Emily sank into a chair, picked up the ice pack, and pressed it to the side of her face. She held it there until the cold stung, then held it there some more.