Unthinkable in the way it had always been to my mother, I realized. Here I was at last, after all those years at odds with Irene, standing in her shoes, in her house, understanding her completely. By no means could Kelli be put into One of Those Terrible Places, no matter how un-terrible Gorsebrook might actually be. It was terrible enough to think of her apart from me. Not that I was capitulating to my mother’s martyr-like approach to caregiving entirely — Irene had been far too stubborn in taking it all on herself. If only she had reached for the competent, professional help that could have eased her burden. If only she had looked beyond Trevor. Then again, who could blame her? Trevor had had the advantage of being there precisely when my mother’s need for help arose — filling up the doorframe, blocking out the light. Shooing her back inside.

But I wasn’t going to think about Trevor today. Today I would focus, at last, on the future.

Later in the afternoon I figured Jessica was apt to pick up if I called, but at the last moment my nerve failed me and I decided to send her a Facebook message instead. Facebook was the place where we’d first rekindled our childhood acquain­tance, after all. The impulse was kind of like that of a spurned boyfriend, taking his girl to the park bench where they’d had their first kiss.

“Jessica,” the message began, “this is my official apology for being an insane idiot.”

After an hour of composing and deleting multiple drafts, some terse and weirdly legalistic, others self-consciously informal and filled with lame parenthetical asides — “Things have been stressful (as you well know, haha)” and “I overreacted in the driveway (understatement of the year!!)” — I just deleted everything but the first line and asked her to forgive me.

Then I told her I was taking Kelli to Gorsebrook tomorrow and could she meet me for coffee nearby? And then I said I understood if she didn’t want to see me again.

Moments later, bobbing dots appeared in the message window beneath what I had typed. I watched them rise and fall for an approximate eternity until finally a two-word message arrived.

“Of course,” it read.

And then another came: “I’ll pick you up at Gorsebrook.”

I put my laptop aside and stood up from the couch. I paced a little, full of energy. Kelli glanced up as if expecting me to make some kind of announcement. And then I did. I told her I was taking her to Swiss Chalet for supper that night.

DEAR KARIE it began, (AND DEAR KELLI). The folded note had been stuck to the door with a ragged piece of duct tape that looked as if it’d been chewed off the roll.

SORRY I GOT ALL UPSET. MY TEMPER IS WHAT I LIKE LEAST ABOUT MYSELF AND SOMETIMES THE PEOPLE I LOVE DON’T LIKE IT MUCH EITHER. ANYHOW I APOLOGIZE. YOU GUYS WILL ALWAYS BE MY TWO FAVOURITE PEOPLE. I KNOW RINI WOULD WANT ME TO DO EVERYTHING I CAN FOR YOU GUYS. SHE TOLD ME THAT A LOT BEFORE SHE DIED SO IF IT SEEMS LIKE I PUSH TOO HARD SOMETIMES THAT IS WHY.