Intertwining lives on a cool, damp evening, various tendrils with different needs: the children down, now my parents went to bed, no sound of the TV, though—they streamed shows on their tablets, both of them wearing headphones, lying next to each other in their automatic, adjustable king-size, double-mattress bed.

My brother came home to me having a whiskey and soda at the living room table, the only light on, above the stove, and Daniela loading the dishwasher with the dripping plates she’d left to soak while we ate our slices of cantaloupe.

Luca sat down with me. He took off his jacket, folded it in two, and tossed it over the back of the easy chair behind him. He picked up my glass and took a sip; swallowing, he breathed in, then sighed. He got up and walked around the backless shelf dividing the living area from the kitchenette, got some ice from the freezer, and made himself a drink, chatting a little with his wife, without kissing her or hugging her hello.

They both sat down with me. I asked Daniela what she thought of the fact that my parents always changed the subject when I brought up anything that interested me: “That’s been happening since I stopped working,” I said.

In those days, if I’d noticed others’ reactions, I might have behaved differently, but now as I write this, I can insert the strained expression on my brother’s face, who hated when I discussed work with Daniela.

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” she said. “My parents tell me I don’t work because I’m too lazy.”

“You, lazy? Yeah, right.”

“Luca”—my brother was getting up to go smoke on the balcony—“your wife tells me Mom and Dad talk shit about me behind my back. Why didn’t you say anything?”

My brother sat down and lit his cigarette at the table; Daniela stared at him, annoyed, then gave up.

“And they talk shit about you to me,” I added.

“Yeah, I know,” my brother said, “because they also talk shit about me to Daniela.”

“So they talk shit about you to me and Daniela, and about me to you.”

“And me,” Daniela added.

“And do they also talk shit about you?” I asked Daniela.

“God, knock it off, Marcè!” my brother said. “Would you just go home already? Let me relax—you don’t need to take on the whole family. I’ll handle it.”