“You’re the best accountant they have,” I remind her. Meticulousness is a good thing when one is employed as an accountant at a financial company. Even if she isn’t the fastest of her colleagues, feeling compelled to quadruple-check everything means she almost never misses an error. She also always sees around the corners, always anticipates anything that could go wrong. I push aside the familiar prickling resentment that she manages to excel at work while our life at home feels like a train wreck about to happen.

“Thanks, honey. Let me go change and I’ll help you with dinner.”

“That’s okay,” I say hastily. If she does, we might not eat until ten. “It sounds like you had a hard day. Why don’t you go unwind with a book or work on your knitting?” I have to admit the latter is a self-serving suggestion — knitting always calms her.

“It’s been a while since I started a new project, hasn’t it?”

“It’s been a really long time since you went to your Stitch and Bitch group, too,” I say. She used to love those nights at the library, and so did I — they meant two extra hours of freedom.

A flicker of unease dances over her face. “There’s just always so much to do around the house.”

But there isn’t.

“I should check on the food,” I say.

“Okay, honey. I’ll go change.” She pulls me in for a hug.

I hold my breath, afraid she’s somehow going to spot a problem in the kitchen from all the way down the hallway — a sauce splatter or an odd number of dishes remaining in the dishwasher, or any of a thousand other ways I might have broken her unspoken rules. Still, it feels nice to have her arms around me. It’s comforting. She’s always been there, and she’s all I have now that Dad is gone.

She smiles when she pulls away, and I exhale. Safe. For now.

Mom sniffs the air. “Is something burning?” Not so safe after all.

“I’ll go check you can go sit down no need to follow me,” I say in a rush.

But of course she does.

I fly through the kitchen ahead of her at the speed of light, chucking the roast beef into the onion pan. A quick flip of the cutting board puts it clean-side up, creating the illusion that I already washed it. I whirl around to face her and body-shield the other counter detritus from view, stirring the onions and beef with my arm at an angle that’s positively absurd.

My phone buzzes again, and I jump.

“Oh my god! What’s that on the counter?” Mom asks.

The smallest amount of roast beef juice has escaped from beneath the cutting board.

“Is that meat?” The pitch of her voice rises, and my tension along with it.