She answers by scooping up more snow, then runs by and smacks me in the chest. She takes cover under a pitiful young maple tree at the end of Washington Avenue, dodging left, then right, laughing the entire time.

“Aren’t you supposed to be heading to work?” I call as I amble toward her. I reach down, grab a softball’s worth of snow, packing and shaping it and trying to decide what part of Logan I’m going to aim for.

“Not for another hour. I thought I’d walk you home and come back for my car after.”

I still haven’t mentioned anything to her about Nana and our Jewish heritage. This morning, when I was ready to go to school, Nana was still sleeping. She’s always the first one up. I found Mom exactly where I left her last night—sitting at the reception desk. This time she had an empty pot of coffee and a mug on the desk. A website on Judaism filled the computer screen. Her eyes were red with dark shadows underneath, and she was wearing the same clothes from the day before. Dad walked over and tried to be supportive. He told Mom and me that he’s never been big on religion but believes in God. “Do whatever you need to do,” he said.

“I don’t know what that is,” Mom said. “How do I process this?” She stood and slumped into Dad’s arms. He led her into our apartment.

Alone, I walked into the parlor. The inn, which has always been a place of comfort and warmth even when we have no guests, felt cold and haunted, even with the fire blazing in the fireplace. For the first time ever, I couldn’t wait to leave for school.

Logan lobs another snowball at me and misses by a mile. I nail her right shoulder, spraying snow into her face. She squeals and takes off running toward Sunrise Park. “Catch me if you can,” she calls.

I chase after her and purposefully let her stay ahead as I plan my next move. She’s just about to enter the park when I pitch a loosely packed snowball high above her. It showers down onto her hair.

She turns, rubs her gloved hands together, and makes a cackling sound like she’s the Wicked Witch of the West. “You’re in for it now, my pretty.” This time she scoops up snow using her hands and forearms as a shovel. She braces the wet, fresh snow against her chest and stalks forward with her snow bowl. I can’t help it, I laugh.

With three snowballs in hand, I plant my feet and start juggling, planning to use one to wash her face the moment she’s within arm’s length. Five, four, three…Ready, aim—