“What did you do to Pierce?” she said as she reached for the head.

“Sorry. Your son’s fault,” I said as I stretched my arm out and handed it to her. Stepping inside the screen door, I inhaled the familiar scent of their house: seven different kinds of potpourri all mixed together.

“You can glue it, Nana,” Emily said as she and Jack rushed forward into the arms of their grandmother. “I will help you.”

Judy pressed both of them to her waist, against her white-and-blue caftan, and closed her eyes briefly. “Of course, sweet girl.” Her voice still held the lightest lilt of a Texas accent. She opened her eyes and looked at her son. “I’ll have you know, I liked Pierce more than you.”

Mark laughed. “Sorry, Mom.” He stepped into the foyer and gave his mother a kiss on the cheek.

She made a harrumphing noise, no doubt wondering whether Mark had done it on purpose. In college, when Mark and I started dating our senior year, he told me early on that his mother was into what she called “discrete collections” of things, and he was not happy about it. I pictured a china cabinet filled with old teacups and saucers, and antique picture frames. And she did have those things. Just about five hundred additional “collections” in every inch of her house. Mark said it was like living with hoarders, except socially acceptable ones who had Hummel figurines instead of flattened cat carcasses. And, apparently, fairy-garden accoutrements.

Judy waved Mark into the sunken family room, where his dad, Bud, sat parked in front of the White Sox game, as per usual. Their house was built in the 1970s, and I don’t think any of the decor had changed; it had just been enhanced. Then she leaned forward and hugged me.

“It’s so good to see you. It’s been too long,” she said as she kissed my cheek. She always went in for the kiss on the lips, but after I awkwardly turned my head enough times, she had to settle for my cheek.

“Good to see you, too,” I said, silently adding, We saw you guys not that long ago. But if Judy had it her way, we would all live together like some kind of eighties sitcom with a wacky letter carrier who stopped by for coffee every morning. I, of course, would fill the role of the incompetent mother who had to learn everything from actual adults. Which, I supposed, wasn’t that far off.