My heart falls as the phone rings and rings. Then I get her voicemail. She sounds a little more chipper in this version than in the one I’m used to.

Hi, you’ve reached Char. Leave a message or send me a text and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks!

Char? My mom’s other voicemail says, This is Charlotte Bryan. Leave a message after the tone.

It’s so bizarre. I leave her a message.

“Hey, it’s Meg. Everything’s fine. Please call me back.”

I then dial my dad. More ringing. Then his voicemail.

This is Kyle. A long pause. Leave a message.

That’s the exact same voicemail. Somehow, that tracks. Same old Dad.

Why is Mom’s so different? She seems happier.

I never think of my mom as unhappy. Neither of my parents. They go out to dinner more than once a week, see movies I can’t believe they think they’ll like and then call me on speakerphone to talk about how much they hated them; they save up to buy new patio furniture from Costco, and then post pictures on Facebook (hellscape) of it so all their friends with names like Nancy and Rod can leave comments like Looks great! Love, Nance and That’ll get the job done!

I mean, maybe they’re not exactly thriving. My dad has wanted to leave his job for over a decade and my mom is always booking vacations and then canceling them, deciding the money could be better spent on things around the house. New patio furniture, perhaps.

Who needs Cabo? We have a new grill.

I’ve been telling them to leave that old house for years. Telling them to get out of godforsaken Florida. I’ve offered to contribute financially, but the very idea offends my mother and no amount of arguing could change her mind.

I don’t leave a message for Dad. He never listens to them anyway. He famously leaves his phone behind wherever he goes, defeating the entire purpose of having it.

Finally, it’s time to leave for Joy’s. I bring Maureen since Kiera mentioned that there’s lots of outdoor seating at the coffee shop. Having a dog with me always makes me feel better. Even a dognapped one. Possibly especially a dognapped one.

But still, it’s a tense five-minute walk for me.

I’m excited, of course, to see Aimee. It’s been a long time. And the last time I saw her, things were ugly, and then things were catastrophic. But I’m also afraid. Afraid of letting her down. Afraid that she’ll let me down. Afraid it’ll feel weird and awkward. Afraid to tell the truth when it’s so impossible to believe.

Maureen has no sense of the drama, however, and is just happy to be here.