The details of the story, the explanation, might be surprising, even painful to hear, but it would be worth it. The tearful reunion. The ongoing life. The future.

Amelia, Casey, and Mrs. O’Brien were still in the kitchen. Amelia was working hard to hide her tumultuous feelings. Her stomach rumbled and she said, “I guess I’m getting hungry again,” but she wasn’t hungry at all.

When Casey excused himself to use the bathroom, Mrs. O’Brien offered a suggestion. “You could ask him to stay for dinner,” she said quietly.

But Amelia wanted him to leave. She didn’t want to discuss Epiphany, this new development, but she was too preoccupied because of it to act normally. “Thanks, but no,” said Amelia. She shrugged. “You know, the Professor might be weird.” She shrugged again and shook her head.

“If you change your mind . . .” Mrs. O’Brien’s voice trailed off.

When Casey returned to the kitchen, Amelia told him there was something she needed to do and that he should go. She played with her hands as she spoke, pressing her fingertips together, then forming a bowl with her hands in midair.

“Well, see you tomorrow then,” said Casey, a touch of disappointment in his voice. “Come to the studio early,” he added, hopeful.

“Okay,” replied Amelia.

But she knew Casey would understand if she didn’t show up because Epiphany had come back for good. In her cantaloupe jacket. In the silver car. The long-lost mother. Home.

17 • Too Big

Amelia looked for the silver car from the living room window several times throughout the rest of the day. The car was nowhere to be seen. Although she was ready to burst, Amelia kept the earlier Epiphany sighting to herself, hoarding it, the biggest secret she’d ever held.

When Mrs. O’Brien spotted Amelia at the window, she said, “Honey, I don’t think he’s coming back. You asked him to leave.”

“Oh, I know,” said Amelia. “Just checking the weather.”

Dinner was a quiet affair, equal parts Mrs. O’Brien’s even regularity and the Professor’s expressions of irritated disappointment. During the silences, Amelia thought about Epiphany. The scenario she’d been creating deepened. Among the swirl of possibilities were travels to faraway places and important jobs, but no other children. Just one mother and one daughter. Amelia knew Epiphany was the mother and that she, Amelia, was the daughter. She knew it in her bones, her teeth.

If she were more brave, Amelia would have pulled Mrs. O’Brien from the table into the pantry off the kitchen and begged her to answer the questions that filled her head:

What do you think about my mother?

What really happened to her?

Is she alive?

Tell me everything, she wanted to implore. But, of course, she couldn’t. And didn’t.

But she made it through. Through dinner. And through the long, lonely hours before bed.

At one point, when she heard her father go into the bathroom, Amelia sneaked into his study.