My dad floated the salt over to Aaron, who rolled his eyes before tossing it back into the air, my dad catching it with his telekinesis before it dropped onto the floor, both of them laughing.

“Oh honestly, how are you still getting salt everywhere,” my mom said, as I tried to keep up with the whiplash of her taking a dig at my career and complimenting my cooking knowledge in a single breath, only pausing to predict her son’s behavior.

“It’s like you always say, Mom.” Aaron laughed. “Your visions are never perfect.”

I just wish my parents could remember that they approve of my cooking, even when I do it outside of their kitchen. I have a good, steady job that has opportunity for growth and all they think about is the late nights, the cutthroat competition, the drug use … my mom read Kitchen Confidential once and assumes that’s the life I’m getting into. She’s not wrong—I’m definitely nervous to play in the big leagues—but I wish she would trust me a little more. And it’s not like I expect Aaron to come rushing to my defense, but he isn’t exactly helping when he talks about how illustrious a computer science career is, even if he doesn’t mean it as a dig against me and even if it doesn’t sting as much in this setting.

Except … my dad was telekinetically cutting up his chicken while eating green beans with his hands, as my mom talked about her day at work—how she was able to be in a patient’s room seconds before they would have fallen, saving them from a concussion. My dad smiled, and pride shone in Aaron’s eyes, like he could read how relieved and proud my mom was.

I just wanted to be a part of that. That’s my brilliant explanation for what happened next.

“Do we have a history of narcolepsy in our family?” I asked, because, remember, I’m an idiot.

I was met with three sets of silverware scraping to a stop and three blank stares before my dad said: “I don’t think we do. Why are you asking?”

I saw my mom’s eyes narrow in that knowing mom (and knowing psychic) way and Aaron cocked his head like something was clicking into place. OR like he was reading my thoughts, despite all his promises.

“What’s wrong?” my mom asked.

“I’ve been having some … sleeping problems,” I said vaguely.