“I must have forgotten,” Susan said, noticing Clover’s navy dress and pearl earrings. Her brown hair was neatly combed. Clover, a lawyer—as well as a divorced single mother raising two children—always seemed to be rushing off somewhere.

“Aw,” said Evie, “can’t we stay?”

“Not tonight,” Clover said. “I’ve arranged for a sitter.”

“They could stay with me,” Susan offered.

“Please,” begged Hugh.

“Next time,” Clover said. “We need to go.”

Susan hugged Evie and Hugh, then helped them into the car and buckled their seats. She stepped to the driver’s door.

“Have fun?” Clover asked.

Susan nodded. She leaned in and gave her daughter a hug, careful not to smudge her makeup.

Clover reached into the passenger seat and produced a pile of mail and newspapers. “These have been collecting at the mailbox.”

Susan took the stack.

“I overheard a colleague talking about a pigeon article in the newspaper,” Clover said. “I’ve been too busy to read the papers, I’m afraid. Otherwise, I would’ve cut it out for you.”

Susan adjusted her weight, then grimaced when she felt a twinge in her leg.

“Knees?” Clover asked.

“They’re fine,” she said, recalling how Clover, for the better part of two years, insistently brought up that she should have knee-replacement surgery. And she wasn’t about to admit that the long walks down the lane for the mail wreaked havoc on her dodgy joints. “Perhaps you could come and stay next weekend with Evie and Hugh,” Susan said, trying to change the subject.

“You could come to London,” Clover said.

Susan nodded toward the loft. “Pigeons.”

“Bring the pigeons!” Hugh called from the back seat.

Clover looked in the rearview mirror. “No, Grandmother can’t bring the pigeons.”

“We should build a loft,” Evie added.

Clover sighed and placed her hands on the steering wheel. “I’ll check my schedule,” she said to Susan. “In the meantime, see if you can find someone to care for the pigeons.”

Susan nodded, then watched her drive away with Evie and Hugh waving their hands. She loved Clover. And she knew that her daughter cared for her. But they were, quite simply, different people. As she made her way back to the cottage, she thought of Hugh’s and Evie’s designer tennis shoes, likely purchased by their mother at Harrods or Selfridges, specked with pigeon droppings. Susan grinned.