I duck my head. “But I don’t have much here,” I say. “I haven’t been too much of a grocery shopper of late.”

“I get it,” he says. “So what do you want for dinner?”

“You know all the places,” I say. “What sounds good?”

“Mom,” Evan says in a parental tone. “What’s Rule #7?”

“Dinner is a family activity,” I say.

“That means we eat together,” Evan says, continuing to sound like a parent. “And we always made our first meal together whenever we arrived, remember? You’d do the salad, Grampa would barbecue, Grandma would make her famous potato salad, baked beans and cucumbers and onions, Dad and I would take turns cranking the ice cream maker.”

I smile.

“What can we make out of air?” I ask.

Evan laughs. “Let’s run to the store and get a few things. Whip up a nice dinner.”

“You can cook?” I ask, eyes wide.

“Surprise,” Evan says, waving his hands in the air.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“A millennial,” he laughs. “Who are you?”

I look out over the lake for a second before turning to Evan.

“A millenni-mom,” I say.

Evan stands and holds out his hand to help me up.

“I’ve missed you,” I say, my voice filled with emotion.

“Back atcha, Mom,” Evan says, his stomach rumbling. He turns to Sonny. “Ready to go shopping?” Evan pets Sonny on the head and laughs. “For Halloween, we totally need to put a patch over his eye and make him a pirate.”

I laugh. “Remember when you were a pirate for Halloween?”

Evan laughs even harder. “I remember,” he says. “You were so busy with work that year. You made me a patch out of duct tape and thought about giving me a steak knife to carry around.”

“It made a good sword,” I say.

“I was eight, Mom,” Evan says, again laughing.

“I would have put duct tape over it,” I say. “I’m sorry. I was an overwhelmed mom. I guess I wasn’t mother of the year.”

Evan pulls me into him. “You’ve always been mother of the year, Mom.” I shut my eyes, and I feel happier than I have in a long time. “Now, let’s shop.”

TWENTY-THREE

I watch in astonishment as Evan smashes garlic, dices onion, chops peppers and carefully removes seeds from jalapeños. He drizzles some olive oil into a large stockpot and adds the vegetables, turning them with a wooden spoon. When they’re tender, he adds an assortment of beans to the pot along with some chicken stock. Evan plops in some tomatoes and green chili sauce, and then runs out to the grill to check the chicken breasts.

“Glad you kept this going in the winter,” Evan calls, the cold air rushing through the door. “True Michigander. Grilling in the snow.”

“The old grill won’t be around much longer,” I say. “New gas line. No tanks.”