“Your mother,” Suzanne said.

“We heard she died,” Grant said.

“She . . . did.”

“Well, we’re very sorry. Was it expected?”

“Not entirely.” Ted looked to Allison for help.

Allison heard the kettle, so she went inside, leaving the odd conversation on the porch to puzzle itself out. What was that about? Bringing up a death that had happened so many years ago?

Allison thought of all of the changes that had happened in those years: Jillian’s birth and her advancement to preteen status, her and Ted’s descents into middle age. Allison’s favorite aunt had died during that time—young, only sixty-one—and her father had had his heart attack, which led to her parents’ move to assisted living. Time was rolling on and gathering speed.

Allison was setting the teapot and cups on a tray when Adam shuffled into the kitchen.

“My head hurts,” he told Allison, his voice world weary.

“I know just the thing.” She got a silk scarf from the front closet and wrapped it around his forehead, a technique she’d learned at yoga, and gave him an oatmeal cookie. He thanked her with a big smile. If only she could still satisfy her own needs so easily. She put a few of the cookies on a plate. Maybe she could tempt Suzanne with those.

“On what show?” Ted was saying. He said it loud, over the music, but the music ended in the middle of his words, leaving him shouting into the night. For a moment Allison experienced the evening she’d intended to have, with cardigans and candles, the sound of Ella Fitzgerald instead of Elvis Presley.

“Law and Order,” Grant said.

“We never watched it.”

“Law and Order?”

“We don’t watch much TV.”

“We love TV,” Grant said.

“You love TV,” Suzanne said.

“I love TV. She’s right. She’s more sophisticated than me. There’s no use arguing it.”

Suzanne’s nod was small, nearly imperceptible.

Jillian—listening, always listening—called from the swing, “Tell them we need a smart TV.”

“You don’t have a smart TV?” Grant said.

“We don’t want a smart TV,” Allison said.

“You don’t want a smart TV,” Jillian said. “Dad and I do. Right, Dad?”

“Not me,” Ted said, hands up in surrender.

“You could stream those shows from the old days. The ones you always talk about,” Jillian said.

“Leave It to Beaver,” Ted said, sheepish. “I Love Lucy.”

“Dude,” Grant said, nodding his approval.