My mother has a past? I mean, obviously she does. But a Past, capital P. Something she has been hiding from me, and from the looks of things, from everyone else as well. She lied to her staff about it. Questions are layering on top of each other, forming a tiny volcano in my chest. I genuinely have no idea where to begin.

And then her words play back to me. Wait. Is she asking me for my help?

And I hate that I feel this—a tiny rush of happiness. Is my mom inviting me in to… whatever this is? “Me?” I manage.

“I’d really appreciate you coming with me,” she blurts out. “I’m not sure what needs to be done, exactly, but this is obviously a very nuanced situation, and I could use some, ah, assistance.”

I see something brand-new in her face. Worry? Vulnerability? My mom needs me. I have no idea what to do with that realization. It fills up my chest, making me feel bigger and smaller at the same time. My mom can handle everything, but now she needs me? My eyes are drawn to her hands again. They’re shaking. Ever so slightly, but that is a definite quiver.

This is not a drill.

She lost her sister. My heart swells up even more. I have never seen her shaken. Ever. And now she’s asking me for support in the weirdest, most formal way.

“Of course I’ll come with you,” I blurt out.

She relaxes slightly, her shoulders sagging for a moment. “Thank you, Pillow.”

She says the last part so quietly, I almost miss it. Pillow was my childhood nickname, and it rushes me back to Brooklyn, to our apartment before Chloe and the kids, before LA and Mary Haverford Events. Before I felt like I had to make an appointment to talk to either of my parents. Suddenly I’m enmeshed in weekend trips to farmers markets, museums, libraries, a whole other life—a whole other reality, when I knew who I was. Where I belonged. A lump forms in my throat, and for a moment, my body remembers what life felt like before they split. Yes, there were problems, but at least I knew my place in the world. At least when someone asked me where I was from, I didn’t hesitate to give an answer.

A shimmery cord, thin as a spider’s web, stretches out between us, and suddenly I’m desperate to keep it there. I take a deep breath. “How did your sister die?”

She hesitates. “Cancer. Complications from her treatment. I didn’t know—” Her voice breaks slightly, and she quickly reaches for her throat. “Sorry. I didn’t know she was sick.”