I take a bite of the tuna noodle casserole. It’s every bit as good as it smells and brings me back to Tony as a little boy, when I made it for him. He would never let me use egg noodles, like Diane has, always ziti. He had his little-boy rigidness about certain things—what kind of pasta constituted macaroni and cheese, and what kind was meant for tuna casserole. Wheat bread was verboten; only squishy white bread would suffice for PB&J. I wonder if he’s listened to my message about my father. Does he ever listen to my messages?

Tony was almost sixteen when I announced that I was moving us to Washington State. It wasn’t an arbitrary decision; it was a fantastic opportunity. I’d been seeing a guy who was opening a new high-end restaurant. When he offered me the chance to be his manager, with a salary and benefits, I thought that it sounded wonderful. Greg was offering stability, even a career. I was still young enough to believe that there were good opportunities left in the world and that taking them was the important part. Better to try and fail than never to try at all. That’s what I said to Tony.

*   *   *

“Fail at what? Another ‘relationship’?” This from my teenager, sarcasm complete with air quotes.

“It’s not about a ‘relationship,’ it’s about being in at the ground floor on a successful business.” I imitate his flippant gesture and use air quotes. “Greg’s a nice guy, but this isn’t romantic . Greg is a good businessman and this is a good opportunity for us.”

“No. I won’t go. Enough is enough. This is the longest we’ve ever lived anywhere and I like it here.”

“I understand, honey; moving isn’t easy. But this is a fantastic opportunity.”

“It’s always a fantastic opportunity. Or a fantastic new guy. When are you ever going to be satisfied?”

I am speechless, then angry. “You don’t get to decide what’s best for this family. I do.”

“And you think pursuing this newest crazy idea of yours is the best thing? You’ll keep moving because you can’t just accept that this is the best it ever gets. A place, a job, nice neighbors. That’s all life is really made up of.”

“I’m your sole support, and I need to have the best job I can get.”

“With the newest best guy?”

“This is not about Greg.”

“Then who is it about?”

“You.”

“It’s never been about me, Mom. Even moving here was about that great job you were going to have.”

I pace the arc of the turret six times, my fists clenched so tight that I leave nail marks in my palms. “You’re grounded.” A mother’s weakest weapon. He is way out of bounds here. Every move we’ve made has been to better his life.