“Not everyone gets that,” her mother told her.

“We want to be sure you’ve got someone to take care of you,” her father said.

Those were fighting words for Christina. “I can take care of myself!” she declared.

“Oh, honey, we know that,” her mother told her. “It’s the little things we worry about. Like who will bring you aspirin when you have the flu. Or who will meet you at the ferry after you’ve gone off for a day’s shopping.”

Christina’s mother had a gift for knowing that the small, seemingly inconsequential things mattered. Maybe that was why she’d taught kindergarten. Or maybe she’d taught kindergarten because she liked dealing with what seemed to adults like the easy little matters. Tying shoelaces. Being gentle with small creatures like gerbils and hamsters. Singing at the top of your lungs, dancing in a circle, shaking all about. Laughing. Naptime, when the world settled down and you lay on your mat like a seal in the warm sand. Learning to share—not an easy lesson. The mystery of flour and water and baking soda. Honoring the seasons and all the holidays, Ramadan and Hanukkah and Passover as well as Christmas and Easter. The age-old alphabet song.

Her mother had always cared about the normal matters of the home as well. Now that she was older, Christina understood that it was a talent her mother had been born with, to focus on the present, to polish the everyday details of life, like she polished the toaster and teakettle before she left for work so that when she returned home, she found them gleaming at her like brand-new gifts.

Christina’s father had been so different. He was an active, tense man, always worried, his forehead set in wrinkles like a dry desert floor. He worried about his work, about the state of the world—not one day passed when he didn’t worry about the state of the world. When Christina made good grades, her father worried that she wasn’t socializing enough; when she spent time with friends, her father worried that her homework wasn’t getting enough attention.

Most nights, when Christina’s father came home in time for dinner, he was fretful and absentminded, but Christina’s mother could calm him down. Some nights, when he came home from work late, he would be so wound up he couldn’t eat. Christina would eat alone in the kitchen while her mother sat in the living room, letting her husband vent about the craziness of the world.

Christmas was wonderful because the family came to the island to stay with Christina’s grandparents. They were always so happy to see their granddaughter, and they were mad about Christmas—church, Santa, turkey, presents, and snow. The whole thing. It didn’t matter so much if Christina’s father spent half the time shut in another room talking on the phone to Washington.