Then a couple of days ago she took me to Rush Creek for retail therapy and broke her foot, because apparently Mercury is in an actual shame spiral.

Since then, our positions have reversed, and I’ve been doing anything I can to make her comfortable.

“Don’t say no until you hear the whole thing.”

Uh, oh. That sounds ominous. I take a deep breath, cross my arms, and prepare myself.

“I need you to help with my business.”

“Your business?” I ask. To say I’m surprised is an understatement. My mom is efficient, busy, and organized, so, yeah, she could run a business, but I have never heard a hint about her starting one.

“You know your abuelita has been struggling a bit lately.”

I do know. My grandmother is getting older, and both her knees are bothering her. She can’t manage as well for herself as she used to, and my mother has been talking for almost a year now about moving her out to Rush Creek from New York City.

“I got an apartment for her,” my mom says.

“Oh!” I say. “That’s great!” I’ve almost forgotten that we’re in the middle of a story that started with Don’t say no until you hear the whole thing. I’m just incredibly happy for my mom and my grandmother, who have always been super close, even after my parents moved to Oregon for my dad’s forest service job. Ever since I was a little girl, my abuelita has visited for a long stretch every year, and one of the reasons I’ve loved being on the East Coast is because I’ve gotten to see her more frequently. I’ll be sad to be far away from her again—but it’ll be worth it to know she’s safe, well-looked-after, and near my mom.

My mom sighs. “But the budget’s too tight, so I got a job. I’m doing sales. Like Josie does—with the essential oils, but this is more like body lotions and self-care items.”

“You mean a pyramid scheme,” I say, laughing.

She shakes her head. “No. This one’s legit. No money up front, no recruiting bonuses, just healthy commissions. And I’m making good money. I just need to add more parties. I scheduled a bunch, but then, this.” She points to her foot. “So I’m wondering. Do you think you could stay, just till it heals, and help?”

“What would I need to do?”

“It’s not hard,” she says. “You just need to be my legs, basically. You deal with food and drinks and carrying the bins of merchandise. You bring me things, and I’ll do the talking. I know you want to get back to Boston as soon as possible—”