“Well, I’m just saying. Sometimes people are dealing with hard things at home. Or whatever. I don’t mean to make you feel like what’s happening isn’t horrible. It is. I’m just saying — I don’t know — everyone has a story. Don’t assume everyone at that party is living the good life.”

“OK,” I say. He’s really starting to annoy me, but I know he’s right. “It’s just that this house is more than just a house. It’s more than just a home. It’s . . . it’s like I’m losing a member of the family. Every single good family memory I have happened here. Ivy and I were born here.”

“I know,” Micah says. “I’m sorry. Text me if you decide you want to go. I promise not to be a jerk.”

“OK,” I say. “Me too.”

He pedals to the bottom of the driveway and stops. “Bye!” he calls.

Ivy yells back to him, but I just wave.

“Are you ready for some dinner?” I ask her.

“I’m always ready for dinner,” Ivy says.

I help her brush off the dried mud from her legs and follow her inside to the kitchen. I was right about the spaghetti.

We all sit at the table when dinner’s ready. My mom and dad look worn out. The only one who doesn’t seem devastated is Ivy.

“So, where do you think we’ll move to?” she asks. “Will we get a new house? Will we go to a new town so I can change schools? Can we move to a condominium? That’s what my friend Harvey has, and it’s great. His mom says she doesn’t have to mow the lawn or shovel snow. You would like that, wouldn’t you, Mom?”

My mom twirls spaghetti on her fork but doesn’t bring it to her mouth. “Not now, Ivy,” she says.

“But if we have to move, shouldn’t we come up with a plan?”

“Ivy,” my dad says, “there’ll be time to figure it out later. Tonight’s not the night.”

“But I want to know what’s happening,” Ivy says. She’s really wound up.

My mom keeps twirling her spaghetti, not saying anything.

“Don’t be a jerk, Ivy,” I say. “Can’t you see Mom and Dad are upset?”

She shoves a huge forkful of spaghetti in her mouth, slurping the extra strands in, then chews with her mouth open.

“Gross!” I yell at her. “What is wrong with you?”

She opens her mouth wide to show her chewed-up food. A piece of spaghetti falls out of her mouth back onto her plate.

My dad slams his fist down on the table, and Ivy shuts her mouth fast.

My dad takes a deep breath to collect himself before he talks.

“Listen,” he says, all serious. “Today has been a rough day for all of us.”