“What are you boys up to?” Silas’s mom asked, her cheeks pink from the night air. Dr. Blaire Thomas had her blond hair pulled back in a low, sleek ponytail. She was bundled up in the green wool sweater she’d gotten on vacation in Ireland two years ago. Tall, angular, and always put together. It was part of what made the patients in her therapy practice so comfortable.

She made grabby hands toward Michael’s wine and took a sip.

“And what trigger are you telling my sweet baby boy to pull?” Mama B demanded. Breonna Wright wasn’t so much pulled together as always exploding outward. She was shorter, softer, brighter. She wore yellows and oranges and reds that popped against her dark skin. Her nails were always painted and never in any color that someone could call sedate. Her hair changed drastically every few months. This month she’d cut it in a taper, leaving longer, kinky curls tipped blond on top.

If Blaire was the person in the family you went to when you had a problem you couldn’t solve, Mama B was the one you went to with good news that needed celebrating.

Together the women had given Silas, Michael, and their sisters a foundation of unconditional love, healthy boundaries, and a deep, abiding fear of disappointing either one of them.

“Volleyball,” Silas and Michael said together.

“Mmm-hmm,” Blaire hummed, not believing it.

“Dirty liars. Both of you.” Mama B sniffed.

“What are two lovely ladies like you doing in a place like this?” Silas said, turning up the charm to avoid trouble.

“We’re meeting up with our girlfriends to talk about our sex lives,” Blaire teased. She raised a hand and waved across the patio to a raucous group of women clustered around a heater.

“Our moms have sex lives,” Michael groaned.

“And someday you boys will, too,” Mama B promised, cupping his face in her hands. Her rings glinted under the string of lights above them. She gave Michael a smacking kiss before turning to Silas. “You, son, need to come over for supper soon.”

“What weed do you need identified now?” he asked with a grin.

“It’s got flowers. Weeds don’t have flowers.” Mama B approached gardening the way she did life. With an exuberant amount of energy, secure in the idea that everyone and everything was chock-full of inherent good.

“What’s on the menu?” he hedged.

“Salmon with lemon caper sauce, greens, and cheesecake.”

He grinned. “I’ll be there.”

“Bye, boys,” Blaire called over her shoulder, blowing them a kiss as she and Mama B migrated toward friends and conversations neither son wanted to overhear.

“That was close,” Michael said, dabbing at the nervous sweat on his forehead with a napkin.

“That’s why you need to tell them sooner rather than later. You know it’s not going to be some terrible disappointment,” Silas prodded.