I’m sitting in my favorite chair and watching The Simpsons. It’s the one show my dad used to watch with me in New York. Sometimes I had to ask him to explain the jokes. But whenever it was on, I’d say, “Hey, Dad, Dad, it’s The Simpsons,” because I knew he’d let me watch. The Christmas tree next to the television is already decorated, and Mom comes in and says, “How can you stare at the TV with all those flashing lights?”

“He’s talking to his father,” Granma tells her.

“Oh.”

I hear all this, but I’m also listening to my dad. “I’m not going to be able to make it this time, Ben. I don’t know if your mother said something to you. . . . I was hoping to come see you for a few days after Christmas. But it’s not going to be possible. I’m sorry,” he says. “They’re working me pretty hard over here. Do you know what time it is in London?”

“What time is it?” I press the mute button on the remote control.

“Midnight,” my dad says, sounding closer. “Midnight on Christmas Eve. And I’m still in the office.” He laughs, but after a moment, he adds, “I miss you, Son.”

“I miss you, too.” Mom has gone back into the kitchen, Granma’s in her room; they’re leaving me alone. “Dad,” I say, “Dad,” and he says, “What?”

“What’s that school in London called, the one you talked about?”

“What school?” he says.

“The one American kids go to, near where the Beatles used to . . .”

“It’s called the American School. Why are you asking?”

For a second I don’t answer.

“Why do you want to know, Ben?”

“I don’t know. I was just . . . telling some kid at school about it.” Then I say, “Dad, I’m not sure I like it here.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t really know anybody. The kids are all . . . they act like this is their home, and it’s not mine. On the last day of school, they were all making plans to see each other. I didn’t have anybody to make plans with.”

“Give it time, Son,” he says. “These things take time.”

“I want to live in London with you.”

I can hear him on the phone, even though he doesn’t say anything—I can hear him breathing. Eventually he says, “I’d like that, too. This is something we can talk about. Right now, they’re working me pretty hard. But we can talk about it.”

“I miss New York,” I say.

“Well, London isn’t New York. Okay, kid. I just wanted to say Merry Christmas. Everything’s going to work out. It’s hard at the beginning, but after a while . . . And if it doesn’t work out, you fix it, right? Is your mother around? I should probably say hello.”

“Mom!” I call out. “Mom!” But she can’t hear me, so I have to get up off the sofa. “Wait a minute, Dad,” I say and put down the phone. “Mom!” I shout, walking into the kitchen. For some reason it really annoys me that she can’t hear. But the tap is running; she’s standing over the sink and turns around. “What?”