“Eh, it was all right.” I pick an apple up from the counter and start absently passing it back and forth between my hands. “How was yours?”

She doesn’t answer right away, which causes me to look toward the stove. Her shoulders are tense and there are a few curls poking out from her usually perfectly coiffed updo. When she turns around to grab mugs from the shelf, I notice the bags under her eyes like bruises on her dark skin.

“Mom?” I’m instantly alert. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, darling.” She shakes her head like it will cast off whatever’s haunting her. “Just a—a tough day at work.”

“What happened?” I try not to sound too curious but I’m sure I fail—though I don’t take as much interest in the sciences as my parents would like, that hushed conversation in the dining room still looms large in my mind. Not to mention, I haven’t seen my mom look this burnt out in a while.

“We just received some bad news about one of our projects, that’s all.” She smiles weakly at me.

“Does this have to do with the guy you worked with that was going to try and debunk your research?” I ask, desperate to get more of that story.

My mom looks surprised at the question, like she didn’t expect me to have that information.

“Did your father tell you about that?” she asks. Whoops, guess Dad never filled her in on our conversation. She doesn’t look angry or upset though. Just intrigued.

“Yeah,” I admit, looking back down at the apple still in my hands, “a little. He didn’t tell me all that much, just that you guys were frustrated with this person.”

“Yes.” She nods. “We certainly were. That’s all resolved, thankfully.”

“So then what’s the bad news?” I press. Her mouth is a thin line as she puts the tea bags in the mugs.

“Adam,” she starts, voice in Serious Talk mode, “what your father and I do, it’s very complicated.”

“Okay…” I draw out the word, hoping she’ll give me more than that.

“And it’s also very secret—”

“Yeah, I know.” I roll my eyes, really tired of this speech. “You guys sometimes do research outside of the hospital for, like, the government and stuff. But, come on, you’re brain surgeons, not spies. I don’t get why everything has to be so top secret.”

“Brains can be top secret depending on whose brain it is,” she says, matter-of-fact.

“Well, that’s a fucking creepy thing to say,” I blurt.

“Adam,” she gasps, “language!”

“Mom,” I say, laughing humorlessly, “you’re talking about top-secret brains, I think I can swear.”

“It was a joke,” she deadpans.

“Sure,” I say skeptically. A slow snake of steam hisses out of the kettle, bolstering the tense silence that’s descended over the kitchen.