Myron Bolitar, Master of Self-Rationalization.

Whatever. He had recently done some renovations, updating the bathrooms, painting the walls something neutral, remodeling the kitchen—and mostly, so Mom and Dad wouldn’t have to navigate the stairs, Myron had turned what had been the downstairs den into a bedroom suite for them. Mom’s first reaction: “Will this hurt resale value?” After he assured her that it would not—he really had no idea one way or the other—she had settled into it just fine.

The TV was on. “What are you watching?” Myron asked.

“Your father and I never watch anything live anymore. We used that DMV machine to record the shows.”

“DVR,” Dad corrected.

“Thank you, Mr. Television, Mr. Ed Sullivan, ladies and gentlemen. The DMV, the DVR, whatever. We record a show, Myron, then we watch it and skip the commercials. Saves time.” She tapped her temple, indicating that doing this displayed intelligence.

“So what were you watching?”

“I,” Dad said, stressing that one word, “wasn’t watching anything.”

“Yes, Mr. Sophistication over there would never ever watch any television. This from a man who wants to buy the box set of The Carol Burnett Show and still longs for those Dean Martin roasts.”

Dad just shrugged.

“Your mother,” his mother went on, loving that third person, “is much more hip, much more today and watches reality shows. Sue me, but that’s how I roll or rock or whatever. Anyway, I’m thinking of writing a letter to that Kourtney Kardashian. Do you know who she is?”

“Pretend I do.”

“Pretend nothing. You do. No shame in it. What is a shame is that she’s still with that drunken idiot with the pastel suit like he’s a giant Easter duck. She’s a pretty girl. She could do so much better, don’t you think?”

Myron rubbed his hands together. “So who’s hungry?”

They drove to Baumgart’s and ordered the kung pao chicken plus a bunch of appetizers. His parents used to eat with the gusto of rugby players at a barbecue, but now their appetites were small, their chewing slow, their whole manner suddenly dainty.

“When are we going to meet your fiancée?” Mom asked.

“Soon.”

“I think you should have a huge wedding. Like Khloe and Lamar’s.”

Myron looked a question at his father. Dad said by way of explanation: “Khloe Kardashian.”

“And,” Mom added, “Kris and Bruce got to meet Lamar before the wedding and he and Khloe barely knew each other! You’ve known Terese for, what, ten years.”

“Something like that.”

“So where are you going to live?” Mom asked.

Dad said, “Ellen,” in that voice.

“Shush, you. Where?”

“I don’t know,” Myron said.

“I’m not butting in,” she began, which was nothing if not a prequel to butting in, “but I wouldn’t keep our old house anymore. I mean, don’t live there. It’d just be bizarre, the whole attachment thing. You’ll need a place of your own, someplace new.”

Dad: “El . . .”

“We’ll see, Mom.”

“I’m just saying.”

When they’d finished, Myron drove them back home. Mom excused herself, claiming that she was fatigued and wanted to lie down for a bit. “You boys talk.” Myron looked at his father, concerned. Dad gave him a look that said not to worry. Dad held up a finger as the door closed. A few moments later, Myron heard the tinny sound belonging, he assumed, to one of the Kardashians saying, “Oh my God, if that dress was, like, any sluttier, it would be taking the walk of shame.”