It’s almost not early enough—my mom surprises me by heading out the door at 5:45 a.m. My eyes are bleary with sleep, but I manage to stumble from my bedroom door as I hear the chain being lifted on our front door. “Wait, Mom, can I talk to you for a second?” I blurt out.

“Oh sure, honey,” she says, pausing beside the door. Petal flutters by her ear, alerting her that if she doesn’t make the bus within the next ten minutes, she’s going to be late for work. I feel a surge of anger toward the delicate butterfly baku before I remember it’s not really her fault. It’s Eric Smith’s.

“Toby invited me to spend the first few days of Christmas vacation with his family up at their cottage. Is that okay? I’ll be back on Christmas Eve.”

“Oh, that’s okay, honey. I forgot to tell you that I’d actually agreed to work over Christmas this year.” She leans forward and kisses me on my dumbstruck cheek. “It’s beyond busy at the office, but I’m loving it. Are you home for dinner tonight? Get some takeout if you’re home before me. Also, I’ve been cleaning up, so can you take the bags in my room to the garbage chute before you leave for school?”

Then Petal buzzes in her ear and she’s out the door.

There’s no way Mom would work over Christmas voluntarily. This is the update at work, and it’s made me more determined than ever to put a stop to it.

It’s super early, but I’m so distressed by Mom’s reaction that I’m wired, and I know there’s no way I’ll be able to go back to bed. Zora’s still fast asleep, and it’s hours until I have to head to school. I decide to fulfill Mom’s request and take the garbage out. I haven’t been into her room since the update. I wonder if anything has changed there.

At first, when I open the door, I’m relieved—there isn’t any huge sign of her change in personality. She hasn’t swapped her colorful comforter for something plain and boring, for example. There are still photographs of the two of us on her dresser, and her makeup is neatly ordered underneath the mirror. I run my finger across the edge of my favorite photo—it’s of the two of us when we first moved into the apartment. There’s no furniture in there yet, just stacks of cookbooks all around us. I’m sitting on a pile of them like a stool, and Mom has her arms wrapped around me. Zora’s mom had taken the picture, after arriving in a whirlwind with a tray of baked goods, her children—including Zora—in tow.