Afton heaves a sigh, and I have to agree. Awards night is the worst. We all have to dress in formalwear and sit through like a dozen awards for things we don’t know anything about. It’s the most grueling part of the trip, every time.

Dr. Asaju presses his hands together in a prayer-like gesture. “Now I’ll stop talking, because I know you’ve all traveled a long way today and want to get settled in. Enjoy the conference,” he concludes. “Let’s eat!”

“Yay!” cheers Abby, and I’m right there with her. I haven’t eaten since the plane.

We beeline for the buffet. There’s so much food I don’t know where to start: Three different salads, pasta, rice, and potatoes. Beef. Chicken. Fish. Hawaiian-style pork. Piles of dinner rolls and giant bowls of fruit salad. And the dessert table stacked high with cheesecakes and pineapple upside-down cakes and a Hawaiian type of coconut pudding and cookies and brownies and parfait.

“You’d think none of these doctors ever heard of a heart attack before,” Afton says as we make our way through the line.

“Right?” But we’re both secretly thrilled. Mom and Pop have always been woefully inadequate parents when it comes to dessert.

We load our plates and eat like we’re starving, go back again for multiple desserts, and then sit making small talk with our bellies way too full.

“Hey, where’s Michael?” Afton asks out of the blue.

I’d almost forgotten about Michael—Billy and Jenny’s oldest child. Michael is in college. He’s also a carbon copy of Billy the way Afton is a replica of Mom—tall and slim, with the same dark hair and friendly smile as Billy. Afton had a crush on Michael off and on over the years, but a crush from afar, of course, because he’s so much older than she is.

Billy smiles regretfully. “I don’t think Michael’s going to make it this year. I booked him a ticket, but he just graduated, and he’s got his hands full with a summer internship.” He glances around the table like, These kids today, right?

“I always thought he was a bright young man. What now?” Marjorie asks.

Billy’s face breaks into a proud smile. “Med school.”

The whole table practically ejaculates at this utterly foreseeable news. “Following in Papa’s footsteps, eh?” beams Max.

“Not entirely.” Mom is the one talking now, waving around her forkful of cheesecake. “Michael wants to be a family practitioner.”

“Oh dear.” That’s obviously the incorrect career path for Michael.

They all discuss better possibilities for a while: if not surgery, because of course not everyone is born to cut, then something specialized, oncology or podiatry or prosthodontics. I tune out until the topic suddenly shifts to how Afton has recently graduated, too, from high school.

“With honors,” Mom adds. “Top of her class.”