“You know that’s not true.” He fixed me with a gaze that seemed to be saying about twelve different things at once. “Some of that French toast was really quite edible. Besides, I’m not with you for your cooking or your ability to wash up, I’m with you because you make me feel better than anyone ever has. And I often wish I could be more like you.”

“Well”—flustered by his sincerity, I poked him in the duvet lump where I thought his knee was—“I don’t want you to be anyone except yourself. And…” Finally my brain and heart and neuroses caught up with each other. “If that means you need to deal with this on your own, then I get it and I’ll be here.”

With very Oliverian fastidiousness, he set the plate neatly on the bedside table. “The truth is, I don’t think I’m dealing with it very well.”

“I’m not sure it’s the kind of thing you can deal with well? I think people just feel what they feel and stumble through it?”

“Yes but”—his eyes darkened to a miserable slate—“I think what I’m mostly feeling is angry.”

“That seems pretty normal?” I offered.

“I’m sure it is. It is not, however, a helpful state to be in when one’s arranging a funeral and trying to be there for one’s mother.”

“Where’s Christopher? Can’t he help?”

“Christopher,” said Oliver, with an edge of frustration, “is in Afghanistan. He’ll be back for the funeral but not before. And I’m trying very hard not to resent him, but at the moment this feels very typical.”

I hoiked my feet onto the bed and crossed my legs. “Tell you what. How about we draw a circle around this room and say that in here you can be as bitter, resentful, and straight-up mean as you like. It won’t hurt anyone, and no one will find out, and I won’t think any less of you because I couldn’t—and also because I’m a horrible person anyway.”