Peaches’ lower lip trembled. When had her only child learned to be so mean?

“It’s the dog,” Liam said. “He’s dead.”

“We came home around the same time,” Greg explained. “He was lying in front of the door. We carried him to the clinic but it was too late. His heart stopped.”

Peaches hadn’t even noticed that the huge dog was missing. She sat down next to Liam and took his hand. Greg reached for her other hand across the table.

Tears spilled from the corners of her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. “He was a good dog.” She hoped she didn’t sound stupid and high. “He was my friend.”

Letting go of their hands, she tucked her palms beneath her thighs and rocked back and forth in her chair. Her chest shuddered. A stream of snot dripped from her nose.

“We got him when I was pregnant with you.” She sobbed in Liam’s direction. “He was your brother. When you had to go to the pediatrician, I used to say I was taking you to the vet.”

Her sobs were loud and uncontrollable now. News of the dog’s death and perhaps smoking a shitload of pot while gulping white wine had uncorked all her bottled-up emotion. How did she get here? She was supposed to be a girl drummer in a cool indie band, dating Stuart Little. Instead she was an overworked school nurse, Liam’s mom, Greg’s wife, chief cook and bottle-washer of the family, and the owner of an enormous, old, dead dog.

Greg watched her across the table, regretting that they were no longer holding hands. Liam’s eyes were screwed miserably shut. He was inconsolable. They both were. Greg stood up.

“Can I help with dinner? Do you need more wine? Liam, can you set the table? Maybe start by getting us all some big glasses of ice water.”

Nobody moved.

“I hate this kitchen.” Peaches sobbed. “There’s no ventilation. Maybe we should move. I want to move.”

Liam opened his eyes. “Mom. Stop.”

Greg knew Liam had every right to be miserable. Liam was a teenager. But Peaches. He hated to see her so sad. It wasn’t just the dog—he was an old, old dog. She was sad before they even got home.