There are bags of ski gear dumped in the front hallway, boots dripping melted snow onto the tile floor. Andrew’s parents always close out the ski season in Canada for their anniversary weekend, and usually Andrew stays with my family while they’re away, but this year they said they trusted him on his own. I’m struck suddenly with the fear that if they’re talking to us before they’ve fully unpacked, this must be serious.

When we get into the living room, Andrew’s parents are sitting on the couch by the window, my dad on the love seat next to them. Andrew is perched on the coffee table, half off it like he’s prepared to flee. They’re all holding steaming mugs in their hands.

“Keely, sweetie, would you like some yerba maté?” Andrew’s mom asks, getting up from the couch and heading into the kitchen, long skirts billowing behind her. There’s a reason our moms bonded so quickly when they met—they’re the same kind of hippie artist weirdos. “Robert picked some up from the health food store on our way home.” She rummages through the cabinets and pulls out another mug. I smile when I see it’s one Hannah made—she sometimes sells mugs at our local craft fair.

“Your mom brought us over some homemade bruschetta,” she continues. Our parents are all vegans, so they’re always cooking up new recipes. Andrew’s mom places a few tomato-and-onion-covered toasts onto a little plate for me. “You have to try some.”

I’m trying to get a grasp on the situation, but I can’t. Andrew made it seem like we were in trouble when he texted, but my mom’s concern, the smell of the garlic, and the tinkling piano music makes this feel like some friendly lunch instead. But maybe this is the punishment—being forced to drink yerba maté and hang out when we’d rather be literally anywhere else.

I look to Andrew for help, but he seems just as confused.

“So we talked about what we wanted to say to you,” my mom starts, “how we wanted to . . . well, how we wanted to bring this up—if we even wanted to bring it up at all.” My dad puts his hand on her shoulder to show they’re a Parental Unit and he agrees with her no matter what.

“We know these things happen,” he says, running a hand through his beard. My dad has had the same beard my whole life, and sometimes I think it’s his proudest accomplishment.

“A part of me has been preparing for it,” Andrew’s mom says. “I mean, really, we’ve always known this might happen, even hoped for it a little bit. We’ve certainly joked about it a lot.”