He thought of his mother sleepwalking into Chloe’s room to comb it out. Part of him was grateful, and the other part was terrified.

“One more book,” his sister pleaded.

“I’ve already read three.” He cocked his head.

“Maybe Mom could read one?” Chloe’s voice was soft like she knew the answer, but she was asking anyway.

His sister was young, but not that young. She knew something was up.

“She will soon.”

“When?” She pouted.

“When she’s better.” Max reached for the Hello Kitty night-light on her bedside table and flicked on the rainbow strobes.

“What’s wrong with her?” Chloe’s eyes flexed the way kids’ do when they know they’re not being told the whole story. But the truth was, Max had no idea what was wrong with their mother.

“She’s sick. You know how sometimes you get a stomachache, and you have to stay home from school?”

“Her stomach hurts?” Chloe wasn’t buying it.

“No, more like her head.”

“Well, she seems better to me.”

Max jutted back. “Why would you say that?”

“The other night, when she came into my room, I told her what happened with Sophie, about her calling me a poufy poodle.” Chloe scrunched her nose at the memory. “Mom said if I left a gift by her door, she’d make my troubles go away. So I put the chocolate bunny I had left over from my Easter basket by Mom’s bedroom, and at recess, Sophie played with me. She didn’t say anything about my hair.”

Somewhere in Max’s brain, a plug got pulled and all the blood drained to his toes.

When did his mother speak to her? He thought he caught her before she’d said anything. Had this happened more than once? And what was the deal with the gift?

“Maybe Mom is feeling better.” This was a lie. “But be careful around Sophie. Bullies usually stay mean.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve met a few in my day.”

“Yeah, well, maybe Mom can make Sophie stay nice. I have more Easter candy!” She smiled wide.

Moms didn’t help their kids in exchange for gifts, but he wasn’t about to rip that grin away from his sister. Besides, Chloe deserved a caring mother who helped solve her problems at school—the kind of mom that Max grew up with.

He said good night, and Chloe hugged her pink seal, rolling onto her belly.

He left her bedroom door cracked, then headed toward the kitchen. The dryer buzzed in the basement as Max stepped on a creaky floorboard, the wood buckling. He pulled at his tense neck, moving about three steps before the smell hit his nostrils, rolling him back onto his heels. That scent used to permeate the house—back when his family was happy and his father gave flowers to his mother.

Lilies.

Sometimes pale pink, sometimes goldenrod, sometimes as orange as the sunset through a windshield, but always so fragrant it would make Max’s throat itch.

Robotically, he turned toward the source, expecting his father to be standing in the hall holding a bouquet. But the scent was coming from the master bedroom. They didn’t grow lilies in their yard, and his mom hadn’t had a car all day. Either someone sent her flowers, or they miraculously appeared. He padded to her door and reached for the long, curved handle.