“Maggie, why don’t you go play with Matthew, you see, that boy over there,” I said, pointing to Matthew, who was sitting in a chair across the room, staring at the clipboard of to-dos. He looked boring. I understood why she shook her head, unhappy with my suggestion. I took her hand and walked with her to Matthew.

“Matthew, meet Maggie. Maggie, this is Matthew. Why don’t you two play together?” He grimaced. “Or you are more than welcome to man the whitefish salad sandwiches. Whichever you prefer.” He reached for Maggie. “I thought as much,” I said. He smiled at me. Sitting there in the maroon leather chair, in the pretty suit, playing with pigtailed Maggie, Matthew looked like a saint.

Mark led a group of elderly people into the room, making quick introductions.

“Sheila, this is Aunt Bertha, Uncle Mort, and Mrs. Worth.” I smiled, reaching for their hands, attempting to register their names. The whole group pushed past me, clearly an unnecessary obstacle to the main attraction—the food. Mark laughed.

“Hey, Sheila, thanks for helping so much with the day. My mother, I know she can be difficult.” Difficult? Math tests were difficult. “And she really counts on you. So thanks.”

I nodded. “Sure, no problem.”

He walked over to play with Maggie and Matthew. I expected a Purple Heart for one year with the judge. I wondered what kind of medal Mark would receive for a lifetime. I moseyed back to the kitchen, in search of Janet and Roy, both of whom were sitting at the table, thumbing through a Pottery Barn catalog. It was clear that they felt inferior even at the judge’s husband’s memorial service.

“Hey, you two, why don’t you get something to eat and go mingle in there?” I asked, pointing to the living room. They both looked at me like I was a much better person than I actually was and scurried past me, leaving me solo. Not for long. Tap. Tap. Tap. I spun around. And gasped. Standing on the other side of the glass door, separating the kitchen from the back porch, was a woman who was short—really short. As in, two inches separated her from the circus. She, too, had a robust bun and bad makeup, but she had on an even more unsightly suit than the judge. She had a cane and was pounding on the door.

Esther.

I took a deep breath and opened the door.

“Where were you?! I’ve been waiting. I had to take him!” she screamed, pointing her cane at a scrawny, petrified cabdriver, waiting just outside of striking distance, by the lilies. “Pay him. Pay him!” I walked past Esther, almost tripping on her cane, and produced a twenty from my purse. He was halfway down the street before I could say thank you. I turned.

“Hi, I’m Sheila and—”