I almost said, I heard you the first time. “I know.” I took a piece of turkey. Mom was not amused. “Do you think this means folks won’t come to Grandma Jo’s party tomorrow?”

“No one misses your grandmother’s Christmas Eve party,” Mom said, adding more turkey to the sandwiches. I noticed she was making two.

Interesting.

Dad nodded. “It’s true.” Then he cleared his throat. “Speaking of your grandmother, she told us you two had a talk earlier today.”

“A much-needed talk.” Mom emphasized, putting the bread tops on the sandwiches.

“Which,” Dad continued, “for the record I encouraged—”

“We.”

“—we encouraged her to have a long time ago.”

“Years.” Mom pointed the knife in my direction for emphasis.

I leaned a hip against the island and crossed my arms. “Are you two, of all people, dunking on Grandma Jo for not telling me something deeply personal and important? For hiding things from me?”

They exchanged glances and had the grace to look uncomfortable.

Dad muttered, “You had to make a smart baby.”

Mom cut the one sandwich at an angle so the halves formed triangles. “I had help.” Then she handed Dad the sandwich and cut her own in half, down the middle, like a sane person. “Finley, do you want a sandwich?”

“No, thanks.” For once, I was surprisingly not hungry.

Dad looked down at his plate for a long moment. Then looked at Mom. Then back down at his plate. He picked up one half of the turkey sandwich shaped like a triangle and took a bite, from the corner’s end. Like he always did. I thought I saw the tiniest loosening of his posture. And for the first time since I’d been home, a genuine lightness began to creep back into his expression.

Mom missed it as she brushed her crumb-covered hands over the sink but kept her eyes on me. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Grandma Jo’s gay. Or lesbian. Or, whatever she wants to be. There. We talked about it.”

“How does that make you feel?”

I groaned. “Please. I beg you. No more talking. Just for tonight, okay? Between all the talking I’ve done in the past twenty-four hours with you two and Grandma and Mia and Ayisha and Arthur, I’m heavy-talked out. I just want to lie on a sofa and watch a fluffy Christmas movie and then watch the snow come down.”

Mom smiled. “That sounds like a lovely evening, honey.”

Dad nodded. “I have a few saved on my DVR in the cottage.”

She and I both shifted to look at him. “Who are you?” she said.

And I added, “You hate those movies.”

“Some are better than others.” He chewed another bite. “They’ve been making me feel better lately.”

Mom regarded him, now curious. “Which ones do you have saved?”

“While You Were Sleeping and Christmas in Connecticut.”

She positively melted. “Those are my favorites.”