“I can read your palm, Lily,” my mother had said, and she held my hand close, her index finger tracing, arcing, circling in my hand in a way that made me want to close my eyes and drift off to sleep. She named crosses and grilles, islands and squares, the heart, the head, the Mount of Venus. “Oh my,” she said, and squeezed. “Oh my, this is really something.” She paused, tapping my palm with her finger. “I see roller skates. You’re definitely destined for new roller skates.”

Remember when Jeff got a fingerprinting kit and we all (including the dog) put our messy inked prints in the time capsule for the elementary school? It was a project you both did, the whole school participating. The assignment was to think about what your family would send to the moon. And then your children did the exact thing all over again with the turning century, and I’m sure their children will have a reason to do it again sometime before long. I have saved all of that, those time capsules. It seems, since the very beginning of time, people have been preparing for the end.

Years later, I didn’t have to read your father’s palm to know something was wrong. When my antenna suddenly focused on the suspicion in the air, I knew, and within minutes of knowing, I could see all the stepping stones leading there.

“A young colleague? Really?” I asked. “You’re a cliché?” I said. “I’ve always thought so much better of you.” I accused him of needing a disciple, someone who adored his lectures and explanations, someone who wanted to forge on into the promised land with him. And what was wrong with me? Hadn’t I listened? I can hear you now, Becca, saying “Catch up, Mom. He’s from Mars and you’re from Venus.” I can hear my own mother laughing with one of the women in our neighborhood, Mrs. Smythe, who was also up-to-date on cosmetics and the movies and who invited me over often and gave me my first home permanent several years after my mother died. “What can I say?” Mrs. Smythe said. “He’s a man!”