This constant playback of Nick’s words reminded her of the days when she’d play Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” over and over again on her eight-track, thinking the repetition would allow her to understand the significance of the song and she could then apply this meaning to her life. It hadn’t worked then, either.

She leaned up against the sink and stared out the bubbled glass window, which offered her a wavy view of the backyard. The evening sun came through in one strip against the sill, lighting it as if a child had painted a gold stripe, uneven and slanted on the vanilla-shaded paint. An Adirondack chair faced the old tire swing that hung as a reminder of Molly’s and Jack’s childhood; she couldn’t bear to pull it down, though no one had sat on it in years.

She sighed and picked up the last plate, rinsed it off without looking and placed it in the dishwasher. A slice of pain shot through her forefinger. She drew her hand back and looked down. A paring knife stuck out from the bottom rack of the dishwasher at a menacing slant for anyone not paying attention. Who had placed it sticking up? Hadn’t she taught everyone to put the knives upside down in the rack? Blood ran down her finger in a single stream, mixing with the soapy dishwater in a washed-out pink flow.

“Damn. Damn.” She grabbed a paper towel from the rack and wrapped it around her finger. She’d just added to her scars: the one from slicing a bagel for Jack, the one from the scissors when sewing Molly’s Cinderella Halloween costume. Even her finger was a testimonial to family life; even her scars revealed her commitments.

Our vows are still there, never broken.

She slammed the dishwasher shut with her foot. Where were Molly and Phil? Eat and run, off to what was important to them while she bled over the sink and was tired enough to curl up on the kitchen floor and sleep until next week. Thanksgiving and Christmas were around the corner, and even the thought of the energy and focus the holidays would require of her made her want to let the blood run from her finger. The thought of the boxes and decorations and parties and gifts and family obligations, of the school . . .

Our vows are still there, never broken.

The kitchen ceiling thrummed with the intensity of Molly’s boom box in her bedroom. She did her homework on her pencil-scarred desk while listening to this music, and Amy didn’t understand how. She closed her eyes and leaned over the counter, placed her forehead on the cool granite that she’d installed after the original countertop had cracked under a heavy spaghetti pot.

She jumped as Phil touched her shoulder. “You okay?” He hugged her from behind, kissed the side of her neck.