To cut down on time spent fielding Mom’s doom spirals, I don’t tell her about the play until dinner on Friday when very little time remains until I need to get myself to the school. Mom made curried tofu and vegetables over rice, and we each start with eight perfect squares on our plates.

“How was school, honey?” she asks.

“Fine.” I shove a chunk of tofu in my mouth. It’s kind of bland. “Can you put hot sauce on the shopping list?” I ask. Zoe’s been a bad influence.

She looks at me quizzically. “Since when do you like spicy food?”

I shrug. There is no short answer to that question.

“Your dad used to love my spicy venison chili,” she says, her voice distant.

I feel a little pang of sorrow. Sometimes I want to rewind time back to when Dad was here, I had fewer responsibilities, and life was less complicated. I miss the days when I could lean on my mom without worrying that it would make her spiral. I miss the way I used to feel like her arms around me could protect me from the world, the way she whispered silly things in my ear to make me laugh when I was afraid.

“What do you think about doing something together this weekend?” she asks. “You could invite one of your friends over and we could watch a movie. Or maybe play board games. Do you still like that — whatsit — Carcass Home?”

My heart drops. “Carcassonne,” I correct her softly.

“Yeah, we could play that,” she says, like it’s not the worst idea on earth.

“No, that’s okay, I don’t want to invite anyone over.” More like I can’t. Even Will isn’t equipped to deal with two hours of my mom fretting about the uneven patterns created by placing tiles in a way that would actually allow someone to win the game.

She takes a deep breath, and my guard is up before she even speaks.

“Or . . . we haven’t been to OMSI in a long time, and I know you want to see the exhibit on satellites,” she says.

I look up, startled at the suggestion. Going out places with her is always so stressful — trying to figure out how to avoid things that might set her off on a routine, trying to be vigilant enough to prepare for it all.

“Maybe,” I say. Can she really handle an excursion to a place full of kamikaze children? Can I?

She must sense my hesitation, because she tries again.

“What if we go to the game shop after dinner tonight? Wasn’t Friday usually when they had those tournaments for that card game you used to play?” She’s trying so hard, it breaks my heart a little bit.

“I have a ticket to the school play tonight,” I say.

“Oh!” Mom says, blinking, clearly not sure how to respond.