I pause in the open doorway, staring out at the Halloween lights and jack-o’-lanterns glimmering across the street and breathing in the smell of wood smoke and wet leaves. The girls’ high-pitched voices emanate from the kitchen as they greet my mom, who is, of course, gracious like she always is. I fill with guilty resentment at my friends’ gesture. I know they’re here because they care, because they love me. But Mom and I were having some rare “just us” time — we had an evening planned. It felt good, felt important. I don’t want to desert her in the middle. And what if she wasn’t feeling well today? They didn’t even consider that.

“Come on, Zo, what are you doing?” Cammie calls. I take one last deep breath and close the door. When I return to the kitchen, Cammie has opened the cake box and everyone is oohing and ahhing over what’s inside: a raspberry chocolate gâteau, the entire top covered in glazed fresh berries that gleam like rubies. “We had it at my aunt’s baby shower,” Cammie says, closing the box. “It’s amazing.” She glances toward the stove. “God, that smells good, Mrs. Miller.”

“But,” Syd says, holding up the pizza box, “we have pizza. Zoe, we got pineapple and jalapeño — your favorite!”

“Great,” I say weakly. I don’t know what to do about my mom and the dinner we planned. I feel guilty bagging on her, but she’s the one who taught me to put guests first.

True to form, Mom helps them put the Cheetos and M&M’s they brought into bowls that my friends ferry off to my room. I hold back for a moment. “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I had no idea.”

“I know,” she says softly. She steps over and gives me a hug. “It’s fine. Go have fun.”

She returns to the stove, and my heart hurts. I wish she had friends to hang out with, too. Her closest friend is my aunt Eileen, who has lived in Barcelona for the last six years. I know how much she misses her, how hard it is not seeing her, not being able to talk to her easily, outside of their Skype talks when time zones and schedules permit. Especially during my mom’s cancer treatment — that was the worst. But now, thinking of her at the table, alone with her dinner and her worries about Jonah, I think it’s stupid that Aunt Eileen lives so far away, stupid that their mother died when they were young, stupid that their dad is too busy with his child bride to be a proper dad and grandfather. Thinking about how hard my mom tries, how hard life has been on her . . . Why does everything always have to be too much?

I rush over and hug her from behind, hard, before heading up to my room.