When the leftovers had been put away and the dishwasher started, April yawned and asked if it was okay for her to take off.

“Of course,” my mother said. “I can handle the rest.”

“I’ll help you, Mom,” I said. The only thing left to do was the serving pieces, which had to be done by hand. “I’ll wash and you can dry.”

“Thanks, honey.”

We said goodnight to April and got started, the conversation in the family room carrying over the quiet hum of the dishwasher now that the music had been turned off. I heard Henry’s deep voice and glanced over my shoulder. He was sitting on the couch opposite my father, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, like he was listening really intently.

I smiled and turned back to the sink. “Henry’s so into his vines. It’s cute.”

My mother glanced at me. “He is. Into his vines and cute.”

I wondered if I’d gone too far, so I bit my lip instead of asking what I really wanted to know—what was his wife really like? Had their marriage been that bad? Why didn’t they ever have kids?

My mother helped me out. “It’s so nice to see him enjoying himself,” she said. “He’s been so down the past few months.”

“Well, divorce will do that.”

“Yes. It was nice to see you enjoying yourself too. Did you have fun?”

“Yes,” I said. “My favorite part was seeing the kids having a good time. They really get along well with Mack’s girls.”

“Mack’s girls are darling.”

“I hope Keaton makes a few guy friends here too.”

“He will. As soon as school starts, I’m sure he’ll have no trouble.”

I scrubbed the bottom of a sauté pan. “I worry about him, not having a father around. I mean, I worry about both of them not having a father around. But then I remember what kind of man Brett turned out to be, and I think maybe it’s better to have no male influence than that.”

“They’ll have plenty of healthy male influence around here,” my mother assured me. “Your dad, Mack, Henry. Oliver and Noah are around a lot too.”

I saw the opening and took it. “Henry does seem great with kids. I wonder why they never had any.”

My mother was silent for a minute, and I figured maybe she didn’t know. But after I handed her the pan for drying, she spoke up, a little quieter than before. “They tried for years,” she said. “That was part of the problem. Renee had endometriosis, so they were hoping IVF would work, but it didn’t.”

“Oh no.” Immediately, I understood their situation better. I, too, had struggled to get pregnant. After a couple years of being unsuccessful spontaneously, we’d turned to IVF and gotten lucky twice.