So if she commented, “You’ve gained a few pounds, haven’t you?” I would say, “Why yes! Thank you!” as if pudging out was something I had been working frantically to achieve. If she mentioned that the boys were a grubby mess, I would beam and say “Yes, isn’t it nice that they’re so active!” If she mentioned how loud they were I would enthuse, “Yes, is there anything more delightful than hearing the happy voices of children at play?” If she commented on any shortcomings in the housekeeping, I would pretend to think she was complimenting me on achieving a comfortable, unstuffy, lived-in house.

I’d gotten to the point where playing the lemonade game, as I called it, was actually quite enjoyable, and these days, for whatever reason, she gave me far fewer opportunities to do so. I wasn’t sure if she was making fewer snide or critical remarks or if I was just less apt to misinterpret random remarks as intended slights, but either way, we got along better.

I strolled into the kitchen. Michael’s mother was standing on the stepping stool, rummaging through one of the cabinets. Was she looking for something in particular or just planning to rearrange them again?

“Hi, Mom,” I said.

“Hello, dear.” She stepped down off the stool and we exchanged kisses on the cheek. Then she held me at arm’s length, studied my face for a few moments, and nodded as if I’d passed some test.

“You’re looking well,” she said.

The old me would have wondered why she had to sound surprised. The new me just noted with pleasure that she sounded sincere.

“Thanks,” I said aloud.

“Where’s your colander?”

“We have several that live in that cabinet.” I pointed to the proper one. “But Rose Noire’s been doing rather a lot of soap and potpourri making lately. She may have borrowed them.”

And one had gone out to my car in the bag of things we needed to cook our contraband Christmas dinner, but I wasn’t about to tell her that.

“I don’t need it right now,” she said. “Just making sure you have everything I need for my dinner. I’ll put it on my list. When I’m finished, you and Rose Noire can take a look. There may be things you have that I’m not finding, and anything else we can buy.”

“Good plan.” This was the side of Michael’s mother I liked. She always checked to see that she had everything she needed before leaving the house. She never started a project without making sure she had all the tools and supplies she required. Most people thought I was a good organizer, but I had to admit, Dahlia Waterston had me beat.

Of course, she’d only had Michael to raise. Perhaps if she’d had to cope with twins—

“What did you do to your arm?” she asked.