“But we forgot how much you hate change, how much trouble you have adjusting to new things,” Dad continues. “Any little difference used to set you off.”

“Some people aren’t cut out for travel. We learned that with you right away, didn’t we?” She pats my hand. I pull it protectively toward my body.

“It wasn’t the travel I minded,” I say quietly.

“Of course it was. You and your nana are cut from the same cloth. That was always our burden,” Mom chuckles. “Your generation and Nana’s generation had more in common than either of you had with us.”

“You never know which traits will be passed on, and which ones will languish,” Dad agrees.

“And no one ever tells you how difficult it is to balance parenting and sense of purpose. How jarring it is when you have to give things up.”

“You didn’t give anything up,” I interject. “You didn’t find balance. You sent me off with Nana.”

“Well,” Mom huffs, “you can’t say we weren’t all happier that way. You most of all. You thrived living in a single location.”

She’s right, of course, but that wasn’t the point I was trying to make.

“What do you remember about Indonesia?” I ask.

They glance at each other, perplexed. “Indonesia?” Dad says. “Indonesia when? We’ve been there three or four times. . . .”

“The time with me. After Manila, but before Nana took me to California,” I clarify.

“The weasels,” Mom reminisces, delighted. “You helped us with the weasels.”

“I’ll never forget it,” Dad adds, slapping his hands together. “What a rush.”

“Not Manila. Indonesia,” I repeat, my voice sharp and gaining volume. “What do you remember about Indonesia?”

“Why don’t you come right out and tell us what you’re referring to?” Mom says, leaning forward.

They don’t remember. They really don’t remember what caused Nana to put her foot down. There’s no point in having this conversation if they don’t remember.

A light bulb practically materializes above Dad’s head. I take a deep breath. Finally.

He turns to Mom. “Hon, hon, where’s the treat?”

“What treat?” Mom asks.

“The one Nana sent.”

All the fight leaves me. I’m not going to get any answers from them, let alone the answers I want or need. Maybe it’s for the best. I’d almost forgotten Miles is listening in, he’s been quiet for so long.

“For what it’s worth”—and just like that, his voice fills my ear—“I don’t think it’s true, that some people aren’t cut out for things, or that they can’t change. People can always adjust, people can learn to enjoy new things, even if they didn’t before.”

For a moment the rest of the room falls away, and it’s just Miles’s voice, murmuring thoughtful words in a careful tone. Kind words. Encouraging words.