I stopped trying to keep Mom up to date on the current happenings of my life a long time ago. I don’t enlighten her this time, either. I’m not in the mood for a speech about how heartbreak is a natural part of life, or about what a strong and capable woman I am, and how I don’t need another person—a boy, especially—to be my awesome self. Mom is great at those kinds of speeches, and it all sounds wonderful and encouraging if you feel like you really are those things, strong, capable, independent, but otherwise it feels like you’re even more destined to fail.

The corner of Afton’s mouth turns up in the ghost of a smile. “Okay, fine, if there will be cute boys there,” she says, like I’m doing her a favor. “I’ll get dressed.”

The Hilton Waikoloa Village is so large they have a tram for the guests to ride from one part to the others, and a little boat, too, that you can get around in. Our family is staying in the Ocean Tower at the far side. We take the tram to where dinner is supposed to be—the “Grand Staircase,” an outdoor space at the bottom of some impressive marble stairs. The room is like a giant garden trellis that sticks out into the lagoon, a waterfall cascading in the background and soft, indistinguishable ukulele music floating through the air. The sun is going down when we arrive, a flare of orange against the distant indigo ocean.

I take a quick photo on my phone to re-create later in watercolor.

“Oh my dog,” breathes Abby—her curse of choice. She gazes in wonder at the row of buffet tables off to one side. “Look! There’s pineapple and ice cream.”

“Hello! Good to see you!” Mom starts calling out to her colleagues before we are even halfway down the stairs. “How have you been?”

I brace myself for awkwardness. I’ve grown up seeing these people every year—the same faces, the same voices, the same air kisses and hugs. Mostly the group is composed of older couples who’ve been coming to the conference since forever, their children already grown. At forty-six, Mom is one of the younger members of the Society of Thoracic Surgeons. This means that Afton and I have been cooed over and had our cheeks pinched a lot over the past—I do some quick math—eleven STS conferences. You just kind of have to grin and bear it.

“Oh my goodness!” a lady exclaims as Mom ushers us down the rest of the stairs. “Are these your girls?”

“I mean, who else would we be?” Afton mutters under her breath.

Mom gives her a look that’s a warning shot. Afton and I both step forward, pushing Abby out in front of us like a sacrificial offering. “Hello,” we say in unison. “Good to see you!”