We don’t hug, but Peter gives me a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. Like Cora, he smells amazing.

My niece enters the house last. I see photos of her from time to time on Cora’s social-media accounts, and Willow has developed into a frail-looking, sinewy, pale teen who mothers fear and fashion editors love. Her beauty is striking, despite the fact that she’d likely snap in two if the wind picked up.

“Willow, you’ve grown so much,” I say.

Willow lets me hug her, which is as satisfying as embracing a corpse. Like mother, like daughter.

“I was, like, four when I last saw you,” she says. “So, yeah. I’ve grown.”

I call out for Max, who shuffles his way down the winding staircase to reacquaint himself with the Yates side of the family. The McKay side is entrenched in Arizona, where Max’s paternal grandparents are slowly declining in an assisted-living facility. They came to their son’s funeral, and I never saw either of them cry, as if the death of their firstborn at the age of thirty-nine was almost expected.

I look at my boy, who suddenly appears so out of place and alone, like a stray dog spending its first night in a shelter.

Max mutters hi to everyone but avoids physical contact, and no one but Cora even attempts. She gets within a foot before she realizes his arms are staying at his sides, then opts to give him an awkward rub on his shoulder.

“And look at you,” she tells him. “If I hadn’t seen pictures, I wouldn’t even recognize you. You’re twelve now?”

“Eleven.”

“Willow’s thirteen,” Cora says.

“No one cares.”

“Willow, attitude,” Peter says.

“It’s just hard to believe we haven’t all been together in so long,” Cora says. “It’s crazy, right? We’re a family. We shouldn’t let time slip away like that.”

“You knew where we lived,” I say. “You could have visited anytime.” I’m careful not to say she was welcome anytime.

My comment registers the smallest of glancing blows on her face. “Well, as I recall, I invited you out for Thanksgiving a few years ago, and you declined.”

“I wasn’t ready to be here then,” I say. “I am now.”

Cora puts a hand on my shoulder. “Oh god, of course. And I’m so glad you’re back so we can help you. I just couldn’t believe when we heard about Riley.” She looks only at me as she talks, as if Max has faded into the background. “I was shocked. Simply shocked. I mean, so young. Not even forty, right? What a terrible, terrible thing. I just can’t imagine.”

Riley’s name slides like cold steel into my guts, and I wonder if that will always be the case.

“It’s been hard,” I say instead of thanks. I reach for Max’s hand and squeeze it. I hope I’m grounding him as much as he is me.

Peter takes a small step forward and makes eye contact with me first, then with Max. “You know,” he says, “I’ve taken sleep medication from time to time. Stress of the job and all. But I’m always careful not to mix it with alcohol. Too much risk.” He seems to hear what he just said and scurries to demolish and rebuild his point. “I’m just saying I know how easy it is…you know, to overdose by mistake. Happens all the time, at least that’s what my doctor says. Anything we can do to help. Seriously, anything. Just let us know.”