“The Dolphins losing?” I asked.

Dad gave me the “of course they are” shrug, then asked Mom, “How was church?”

“You’d know if you’d go,” she said in her standard tone. Upbeat. Hopeful.

Dad adhered to the script, as neutral and noncommittal as ever. “Maybe next time.”

They kissed, a quick peck, no hard feelings since Dad’s hand slipped below the counter to do-a-thing-I-didn’t-want-to-think-about, causing Mom to jump and slap his fingers from her backside playfully. Sultry looks were exchanged, and I’d for sure need to charge my headphones later tonight if I was to avoid traumatic bed squeaking.

“Cressie called,” said Dad, sounding cranky. Crankier than he was about the Dolphins losing.

Mom whirled, and snatched the cordless handset from the wall mount, dialing my sister’s number. “Is everything okay?”

“You tell me, Tina. Because right now I’m worried the massive tuition payment we made is not okay.”

Mom ceased dialing. “Really.”

“It’s been a month since we moved her on campus. She’s popped up back home twice already, and she’s on the phone with you nearly every day. Is she going to class? Have you seen any grades yet? I know you miss her, but damn.”

Mom’s new look—definitely not sultry. She turned the corner, the squawking tones of dialed numbers drowned by her stomping footsteps ascending the stairs.

Dad shook his head and went back to stirring his meat. Mysteries of the nightly meal intrigued me way more than Cressie’s drama, so I said, “Smells good. What is it?”

“Slow-braised beef. Going to hook up some street tacos.”

“Nice.” This was the unforeseen benefit of our relatively new weekly church tradition. Since Dad refused to go, he’d cook us a banging meal every Sunday as a peace offering. I don’t know what Mom prayed about up in First Missionary, but I’d been asking God to keep these meals coming. Guess that spiritual stuff really works. Still, I could use a break. “Dad, how about we switch it up next week? You hit church with Mom, and I stay behind to cook.”

“Wow. It’s not just the Dolphins making bad plays today.” He dumped a small mound of chopped onions into his cauldron, then held up a torn envelope from Nationwide Car Insurance as a reminder that I had more pressing concerns than weekly worship. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? Freedom ain’t free, young man.”

On the TV a pass grazed a receiver’s fingers before sailing out of bounds, and Dad resumed his cursing (quietly), our conversation over. Unclipping my tie, I made my way upstairs to get ready for work.

Mom’s voice echoed in the hall, cheery and skeptical in a way only moms could pull off. “. . . I don’t know what a YouTuber is, but it doesn’t sound like a real career to me, Cressie.”

She saw me pass, and shouted, “Del, come talk to your sister.”

I leaned into the room. “Mom, I got work.”

“Talk. To. Your sister.” Mom shoved the phone into my hand.