He’d walked to pick up Matty, every other step filled with hope and relief and the others weighed down by disappointment and what-ifs. It was with this strange accordion of feelings, sandwiched somewhere between catharsis and fresh hurt, that he’d gotten to school five minutes early. He’d strode purposefully toward her office, popped his head in. He was just going to say thank-you. A quick, heartfelt thanks, and then he was going to grab Matty and head home.

But she wasn’t there. Even the lights were out.

She hadn’t been there the next day, Friday, either. Seb hadn’t asked anyone where she was. He also didn’t ask when she didn’t show up for softball either. Between Via’s absence and Seb’s recovery mode, they’d barely scraped by with a tie game, and Seb and Matty had gone home grumpy and exhausted.

That’s when he’d called his in-laws. Would they like to come down for a few days? And in typical Sullivan fashion, as if the invitation wasn’t out of the blue or a secret delight to them, Muriel had emailed him their brisk, businesslike itinerary about four minutes after he hung up the phone.

Art and Muriel Sullivan had arrived Sunday morning and the following Wednesday they were still there. Both of them inserted themselves into the house without fear of being told to butt out. Seb was as grateful as he was annoyed. When his own parents visited—which was for about two solid months every summer—they were true houseguests, all the way down to dishes left in the sink and casual reminders that he needed to pick up more toilet paper. The Sullivans arrived, set their bags down and started running every aspect of the house with military precision. It was, and had always been, as relieving as it was condescending.

He didn’t need the help. But it sure was nice.

Now, Wednesday late afternoon, after he’d picked up Matty from school, Seb sat at the kitchen counter, rocking his barstool back on two legs while he attempted to pay a few bills on his laptop. Muriel was putting the finishing touches on dinner and disinfecting his toaster, of all things.

He smiled at her question, which was somehow rude and kind all at once. Well, are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or are you going to continue making everyone in this house ten minutes late for everything?

“You know, Muriel, sometimes you remind me so much of Cora it makes my chest ache.”

Her head snapped up with the speed and intensity of a sniper finding a target in the scope of a rifle. Her rubber-gloved hand stilled for just a second before she resumed denuding the toaster with a round of steel wool. She ignored the compliment. “So, that’s why you’re sighing and leaving your keys every place but your pocket? Because of Cora?”

There wasn’t censure in her voice, exactly, but Muriel was the queen of compartmentalization. And she’d never understood that Seb hadn’t been able to put Cora’s death in a box where it had belonged.