Eight steps up. The porch beneath my boots is painted light gray. Every other spring it gets a fresh coat. I recall the first year that became my chore, how proud I was when I’d finished and Dad said job well done. The swing beside the door where Dad and I took in lightning storms beneath a wool blanket beckons with a creak of chains always kept rust-free. I can still feel the warmth of his hand around mine.

Our front door is massive, lacquered dark blue—a project from shop class. Dad and I cut, sanded, biscuited, and glued the wood together. Mom chose the color. I knock. This is an enormous gamble. Thomas’s takeaway when the door slams in my face may be that even my parents know I’m a fraud. But the past six years have given me an advanced degree in human nature. I’m betting that rejection will swing his anger to sympathy and even pity for the daughter who disappointed her parents but is still hoping for their approval.

What if they let me in?

Footsteps sound along wide-slat oak floors that came from an old barn. It’s Mom’s cadence. When I was young, some local kids and I played ding-dong-ditch. Ring a neighbor’s bell then run, shrieking, into the fields. My brain leaps up and down, arms wave a signal. Run! I rest a hand on Moose’s head like he’s an anchor that keeps me safe from sailing into the eye of a violent storm. The footfalls reach the door. Mom doesn’t look through the side window to see who it is. There are few strangers in this valley.

Except I’m a stranger now.

The door opens—the years haven’t changed her much. Posture erect, porcelain skin, dark eyes unreadable, black hair cut to chin-length. There are a few strands of gray, less volume to her cheeks, but as always, Mom’s face is unreadable. She has one hand on the door, the other tucked in a pocket of the striped apron she wears to cook, and waits for me to say something. That was always her tactic—let the other person crack.

Thomas has hung back for a bird’s-eye view of the prodigal daughter’s return. I say, “Hey, Mom.” She doesn’t step in for a hug. We’re not that kind of mother-daughter. There were no late-night conversations, shared secrets. Sometimes I tried, but Mom is a professional bullfighter—quick steps, dizzying spins, never a drop of blood on her. In a flash, I’m a little kid again; desperate to apologize for things I don’t understand, to find favor. My mother has never apologized to me in her life.

Mom says, “Big dog.”

“That’s Moose.”

She looks over my shoulder. “Who’s he?”

“Thomas Holmes.”

This is a hurdle, not a cliff. Don’t you dare jump. The contrary tree inside me stretches its limbs. “My boyfriend.” I glance at Thomas, hope he’s caught off guard. He’s blushing. Good.

“He’s the reporter who called us?”

“And my boyfriend. He’s writing an article about me, what I do, for the L.A. Times.”