The next half hour is pretty much this process over and over ad nauseum, until everyone separates into their smaller circles—those colleagues they hang out with every year. Mom’s inner circle is made up of the following:

Jerry Jacobi, who is supposedly a brilliant doctor, but inevitably drinks too much at these events and starts talking too loudly, and then his wife, Penny, starts giggling nervously and making excuses for him, and then their daughter, Kate (a divorcée in her late thirties) starts rolling her eyes like she wishes she were far, far away from her mortifying parents.

Max Ahmed, the chief of surgery from somewhere on the East Coast, accompanied by his wife, Amala, and their eleven-year-old granddaughter, Siri, who never stops talking about her YouTube channel.

Marjorie Pearson, an eighty-nine-year-old badass single lady who was one of the first black women ever to study heart surgery at Princeton. I kind of want to be her, minus the cutting-people-open part. She retired years ago, so she doesn’t really participate in the conference-y part of the conference so much as she comes to hang out with old friends and go on all the excursions.

And finally there’s Billy Wong, his wife, Jenny, and their kids: nine-year-old Peter and six-year-old Josie. We know Billy and his family well because we see them all year round; Billy practices cardiology at Stanford with my mom. He and Mom did their residencies at UC Davis at the same time. Mom calls Billy her “work husband,” and she technically spends more time with Billy than she does with Pop. Or us.

I like Billy. He’s upbeat and funny and nice. He’s one of the good ones, Mom says.

We spend about a half hour chatting and catching up with Mom’s circle. Everyone expresses surprise and dismay that Pop isn’t here. Mom explains why Pop had to stay behind so smoothly, and with real regret in her voice, too, that it makes me feel instantly better about the Pop situation. Mom’s not a liar, or any kind of amazing actress.

Maybe things at home are fine.

Afton and I could simply be paranoid.

Finally Dr. Asaju (the surgeon in charge of the conference) calls everyone to order, and we take our seats.

“I’d like to welcome the members of the Society of Thoracic Surgeons to our thirty-sixth annual conference,” Dr. Asaju begins. “I hope this week will be informative, restful, and most of all, inspiring. I look forward to seeing you all bright and early tomorrow morning at the conference center directly behind us. Please pick up your name badges, your schedules, and your tote bags first thing. There will be pastries and coffee available in every room for the morning session. Lunches will be provided in one of the ballrooms, but you’re on your own for dinner until awards night at the end of the week.”