The binders calm my racing heart, and I look around the room for a moment, reassuring myself of its normalcy.

And in many cases, everything is normal. My mom is sitting straight-backed at her desk, looking like she always does—auburn hair smooth around her shoulders, crisp white blouse, minimal makeup and jewelry. But in some other, indistinguishable way, she looks different. Altered somehow.

“Mom?” I say.

Her eyes don’t quite meet mine. “Come in, Willow. Will you please close the door?”

I do it, but this feels off too. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen the doors to her office closed. There are usually too many people around for that.

“Go ahead and sit,” she says.

I get a bit closer and realize with a start that her mascara is smeared around her eyes in little half-moons. It makes my heart pick up speed, a little at first, then a lot. This can’t be right. My mother doesn’t cry. In her own words, she lacks the necessary ducts. Even on the day she moved out of our Brooklyn apartment and I caught her giving it one last long look, her eyes were completely dry.

Something is wrong. And I don’t mean wrong like she just lost a big vendor or a bride canceled a million-dollar wedding. Wrong like the world has fallen apart and will never, ever be the same.

All thoughts of our fight fly from my mind, replaced instantly with panic. “Mom? What happened? Is someone hurt?” Suddenly I think of my dad and the triplets, and my chest seizes. They’re all right, aren’t they? They have to be.

She gestures to the seat across from hers, and I notice a torn envelope and several sheets of paper spread out on the desk in front of her. The letter has been flipped upside down, and a now-broken wax seal—the exact color of the mason jar poppies—graces the top and bottom of the sheet. Seeing the deep red color twice startles me, and for a moment I’m distracted. I squint, trying to make out the letter on the seal. Is that a fancy P? My mother notices me looking and quickly sweeps it aside.

“Willow, I need to tell you something. I just found out that… well…” She takes a breath, then lets out the rest of it in a rush. “Willow, it’s my sister. She died earlier this year, and I’m only finding out about it now.”

Then she finally looks me in the eye and waits.

So you know when things hit you in waves? That’s what happens here. First, there’s the fact that there’s a death. Absolute calamity.

And it’s in the family. Double calamity.

But then there are the important facts that absolutely do not, cannot connect, most notably the fact that my mother does not have a sister.