My mother, Tia Viviane, and Tia Mariana are standing side by side behind the counter, three wide-eyed owls wearing overly bright smiles.

“Solange and Dean,” Tia Mariana says grandly. “Wow. We never expected to see you two here. How may we help you?”

Oh dear. The cringe factor is strong with this one. We’re never going to pull this off.

I turn to our guests. “Why don’t you take a spin through the aisles.” To Kimberly and Nia, I say, “Maybe you’ll recognize a few products on the shelves?”

They nod with enthusiasm and wander off as if they’re skipping through their own personal playground.

“We’ll find a place to sit,” Molly says.

Considering the café consists of three tables and maybe twice as many chairs, the search won’t take very long. Still, I’m grateful for the reprieve because I need to speak to my mother and aunts.

Dean and I rush over to them.

“Relax,” I say through gritted teeth.

“You’re one to talk,” Tia Viviane says. “What’s wrong with your mouth?”

“Nothing. Try to act natural, okay? Right now, you all look constipated.”

“Constipation is natural,” my mother says. “Just the other day—”

I put out a hand to cut off whatever she’s planning on saying next. “Mãe, no. Please.”

“I’m sorry to draw you into this mess,” Dean tells them, his tone conveying a mixture of amusement and nervousness. “Hopefully we won’t be too much of a bother. We’ll try a few things and be out of here in no time.”

“Filho, don’t worry about it,” my mother says, her eyes soft and kind. “You’ve been through so much. We’re here for you too.”

Yes, yes. So tragic. But we don’t have time for this. I flap my hands, unsure what else to do. “Maybe you should make yourselves look busy. That way, Peter won’t be able to ask any questions.”

Lina’s mother agrees. “One of us should bring a bunch of salgadinhos to the table. That’ll occupy them for a little while.”

“Don’t ask me to do it,” my mother says. “I’m a terrible liar.”

“Viviane should do it,” Tia Mariana suggests. “She doesn’t know how to make small talk anyway.”

Tia Viviane frowns at her. “Shut up, Mariana. See? There’s your small talk.”

Tia Mariana punches her fist into her elbow joint and raises her other fist in front of her face, a move she normally reserves for heated political discussions. “Take that, Viviane.”

My mother shushes them. “Stop it. We’re supposed to be helping, remember?”

Tia Mariana, apparently fed up with the lack of progress on our part, takes it upon herself to begin placing various salgadinhos in a baking dish, then places the dish in the oven. “Someone should offer them drinks.”