“Tomorrow,” Sherri says. She picks up a foam stress ball, a leftover giveaway from last year’s gala, and squeezes it, hard. “I don’t think I can do it. I can handle everything remotely.”

“Honey, Jerry has been like an uncle to you for almost forty years. You have to go see him. Take Violet. She needs to connect with her Midwestern heritage. She doesn’t even like cheese.”

“Or beer. What can I say, I raised her wrong. Anyway, she can’t come. She’s helping her dad with a big shoot. It’s set in the fifties, so of course she and Mitch are in heaven sourcing Studebakers and Hornets. She picked up a Bel Air convertible from one of our board members. She was in heaven.” With Sherri’s help, Mitch started his own business like his dad’s, only without the racketeering. Violet grew up around cars. She knows how to buff a fender, source parts on the aftermarket, and sweet-talk nervous collectors into letting her borrow their precious keepsakes for movie shoots. She can even change the oil by herself. Now she and Mitch, both good-natured, are partners in the business, and they are inseparable. Mitch hadn’t been the greatest husband—their marriage had only lasted a few years—but he’s always been a good friend and devoted father. When Sherri had told him she was pregnant, she’d expected him to leave her. Instead, he began to cry tears of happiness. “I guess I’m going to have to straighten my shit up,” he said, and he did.

And Sherri got her life together, too. But she needed order and consistency, while Mitch liked to shoot from the hip. His was a life of empty pizza boxes stacked on the coffee table, hours at the arcade, and weekends playing volleyball on the beach. He’s remarried and had five more kids with Beth, his funky second wife, who runs a vintage-clothing store in Silver Lake and dresses in hoop skirts paired with argyle sweaters and Doc Martens. Now Violet is part of the big family Sherri never had. She has Sherri for structure, and Mitch for ease.

Tina says, “It’ll be nice for you to go back home, Sher. You need to come full circle.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. I can hear it in your voice. What happened, you know that was a long time ago. It wasn’t your fault. It was an accident.”

They’ve gone over this a thousand times. There was no way Tina could convince Sherri that Arthur’s death wasn’t her fault. She’s blamed herself every single minute of every single day for almost forty years. She dedicates each yoga practice to Arthur, donates money to nonprofits in Arthur’s name. Forty years was a long time ago, but to Sherri, the memory is as fresh as the morning. “Are you sure you can’t come with me?”