It did. It was clean but cozy. Colorful but calm. Her sister had a real eye.

“No, it doesn’t,” Kimber said, shucking her winter gear and stowing it on the neat hooks above the driftwood bench.

“I’m serious,” Remi told her.

“Thanks. No one’s really paid attention to any of the changes. I don’t even know why I keep making them.”

“I know you’re into the parenting thing and all, but have you ever considered working part-time as a designer? I mean, think of all the summer rentals that are in desperate need of an overhaul. Wicker couches and pleather futons have lost their charm.”

Kimber let out a strangled laugh. “Have I thought of...” She stopped herself and shook her head.

“What?” Remi asked.

“I’ve thought of nothing but doing something. Anything.”

Treading lightly, Remi followed her sister into the tiny mudroom at the back of the house. On the wall, mounted between tidy cubbies and the laundry, was a giant whiteboard calendar. Colored sticky notes, patterned tape, and hand-lettered notes lay the groundwork for the family’s entire existence.

Kyle trial in Detroit Michigan.

Hadley recital and sleepover.

Ian book club.

Turkey burgers and salad.

Video chat with dog trainer.

Laundry day.

Groceries.

It was hypnotic in its precise structure.

“What the hell is this?” Remi asked in awe.

“That is my life,” Kimber said, crossing her arms. “Well, my family’s life. I don’t seem to have one of my own.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Impressive, isn’t it?”

“I was going to go with terrifying. Where’s your stuff?”

“My stuff?” Kimber’s laugh was humorless. “I don’t have stuff. My stuff is making sure everyone else has their stuff. Kyle is never home. And I love my kids. You know I do. But kids are so fucking hard, Rem. Hadley is just tiptoeing into puberty, and I don’t know if either one of us will survive it. I didn’t sign up to be a single parent. Some days I just want to erase everything and see what happens.”

“You have really great handwriting,” Remi noted.

“Just what I wanted to be known for. ‘Age thirty-four, mother of two. Had nice handwriting.’”

“Okay, that sounds like the world’s worst obituary. Let’s drink some alcohol and talk.”

“You don’t want to hear your middle-aged sister complain about getting the life she always thought she wanted,” Kimber said, her gaze on the mason jar filled with a rainbow of dry erase markers.

“I want to talk to my sister about her life. I’m not here to judge you.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing to you.”

“Uh, yeah. Caught that,” Remi said. She stepped back into the kitchen and rummaged through cabinets until she found a bottle of vodka tucked behind two boxes of whole-grain organic pasta.

“Straight or what?” she asked, wiggling the bottle.

“Get the glasses,” Kimber said, pointing at a cabinet. Remi skipped the tasteful rocks glasses and found two tumblers with cartoons and big, bendy straws.

Kimber snorted when she saw them.