Conversation was stilted, mostly muttered complaints that our dining room table was gone as was an end table so they had to lean to the floor to grab their drinks.

They still sat with me and I took that, telling myself it was progress, minor progress but at least it was something.

After, when I’d hoped they’d lounge on the sectional with me and watch a movie on our new, huge, expensive, all-the-bells-and-whistles TV, they in unison took their plates to the sink and began to head to their rooms.

“Kids,” I called, slowing their progress but not stopping it entirely. “I cooked,” I carried on. “I think it’s fair you clean.”

“We’ll do it later,” Auden replied before being swallowed by the darkness of the hall.

Pippa said nothing, just disappeared.

I fought the urge to refill my wineglass.

Instead, I got a book and didn’t read. I just sat on my sectional, the book held open in front of me, and waited for them to come out and again leave the house.

They didn’t.

This surprised me.

Surprised me and made me hope.

If they were going to stay, maybe I could convince them to do it with me while watching a movie. I’d take surly and I’d endure it, telling myself it wouldn’t be hard since I’d take it while all our attention was diverted with a movie.

In order to make this attempt, I put my book aside, climbed the stairs from the sunken living room and headed down the hall.

Their doors were open. Their lights were on.

And I wasn’t even at the door to Pippa’s room before I heard her talking.

At her tone, which was snide, I stopped and listened.

“…have to wear sunglasses, this comforter is so bright and so butt ugly. I cannot imagine why she dumped my other stuff and got me this. I hate it. She’s so incredibly crazy.”

My feet moving for me, taking me in the opposite direction to where I wanted to go, they positioned me in the frame of her door.

My beautiful little girl, growing into a big one, noticed the movement there, her head jerked my way, and her eyes, my eyes, came right to me.

They rounded in horror.

They melted in dismay.

Then they instantly hardened in ire.

“Listen much?” she snapped.

“Don’t forget the dishes, baby,” I whispered.

She glared.

I reached in, caught the handle, and closed the door.

My innards tattered and dripping, my feet moved me to my son’s room and he, too, was talking.

I didn’t bother to eavesdrop. I leaned a shoulder against the doorframe and watched him pace his room. His back and alternately side my way, he didn’t notice me.