Rosie leans onto the table. “I’d argue first year is when you can most afford a distraction. Pretty sure most of the people in my class spent more time at parties than studying last year.”

“But that’s different,” Mom says. “Maya’s going to the University of Connecticut.”

Her eyes widen and flash toward Rosie as soon as the words are out of her mouth. I duck my head to stare at my oatmeal and brace. Three, two …

“As opposed to me?” Rosie asks icily.

“No, Rosebud—”

“You can’t lay off about my school for one second, can you? Mine is hard, too, okay?”

“Well, you’re the one who said your classmates are all drunks, not me,” Mom says, holding her hands up.

“Mom, we’re college students. College students party. And I can assure you they party just as much at UConn.”

“Okay, okay.”

“No, not okay, because I didn’t miss the radio show comment.”

I stand up and hastily bring my bowl to the dishwasher, eyes down. If I don’t look at them they can’t see me and if they can’t see me they can’t drag me into this.

“What, now I can’t talk about radio without you somehow finding an insult in there?”

“Your point was that some careers aren’t as good as others, wasn’t it?”

“Honey,” Mom says through gritted teeth, “I’m very proud of you, whatever you do. But I worked two jobs to get you girls into college so you could earn a decent wage and you’d never have to do that for your own kids! Maya understands that.”

Oh, there I am. I pull out my phone and head back to the table, where I focus on scrolling through it. I don’t exactly relish hanging around listening to them fight, but I know how these two get, and they need a witness to intervene if it starts to get too personal. For both of their sakes.

“Well, maybe I want to go into radio!” Rosie says.

Mom thumps her hands on the island countertop. “Since when?”

“Since right now, you make it sound so appealing.”

My phone buzzes, and the sudden sound makes both of them turn their heads my way. At least it’s not Jordy this time. Just another email from Gwendolyn. I wave my hand: Nothing to see here. As you were.

“I will get a job after college, Mom,” Rosie sighs. “It might not make me a millionaire, but I’ll survive with that, somehow. Don’t worry about me, okay?”

I open the email to find a slideshow attached. Jesus our lord and savior, this woman just does not give up, does she? I tap to open it.

“I do worry. I worry about both my girls. I will not stop worrying until I’m old and gray on my deathbed. It’s my job.”