Sitting at the top of those stairs, neatly tagged with a bright yellow ribbon, was my navy-blue Samsonite suitcase. Beside it sat my tote bag containing my passport, my boarding pass for United Flight 1184 to Newark, my connection on TAP Air Portugal to Lisbon, and sixty euros in crisp new bills.

I had booked the trip in January. I had mentioned it at Sunday dinner in February. I had sent Caleb a screenshot of my itinerary on April twelfth, to which he had replied with a blue cartoon thumbs-up.

Five years ago, on the morning after Charles’s funeral, the house had been so quiet I could hear the refrigerator compressor cycling from the second floor. In those first terrible months, Caleb and Tori had stepped into the vacuum with an endless list of needs. *Mom, can you take Maggie to her six-month checkup? Mom, could you sit for a weekend while we go to the wine country? It’ll keep your mind off things.*

And I had done it. I had done it because grief makes you feel invisible, and being needed feels terribly close to being alive. But somewhere between my third year of widowhood and the morning of my seventy-first birthday, usefulness had ceased to be an act of grace and had become a family utility. I was the water heater in the basement: unremarked upon until the shower ran cold.

"Eli," I said, flipping the first pancake with a practiced snap of the wrist. "Set out four plates, please. Chloe, get the butter from the fridge."

They moved with surprising speed. For twenty minutes, the house smelled of maple syrup and fried batter. Finn smeared butter across his chin; Maggie dropped half her pancake on the linoleum and ate it anyway before I could stop her. They were sweet children, loud and messy and innocent of their mother’s calculation and their father’s cowardice.

When the last plate was in the sink, I wiped my hands on a tea towel, turned off the stove, and turned to face them.

"All right," I said. "Shoes on. Jackets zipped. We're getting in the car."

Finn stopped swinging his legs from the barstool. "Are we going to the park?"

"No," I said, unhooking my car keys from the peg by the door. "We have an errand to run before my flight."

Eli went perfectly still. His fork stopped halfway between his plate and his mouth. "Your flight?"

"I am going to Portugal," I told him, looking him straight in the eyes. "My plane leaves at one-fifteen."

Eli stared at me for three long beats. Then, the corner of his mouth twitched, a tiny, involuntary smirk breaking through the teenage gloom. "Dad knew, didn't he?"

"Your father," I said, picking up the red folder and tucking it firmly beneath my arm, "made an assumption. Let's go."

***

Chapter 2 - The Porch at Oak Crest

Tori’s suburban utility vehicle was still parked in my driveway, taking up enough concrete to dock a harbor tug. The keys had been tossed casually onto the entryway console beside my mail. It was a massive, pearl-white machine with tinted windows, smelling of strawberry air freshener and stale French fries.

I loaded the luggage back into the rear cargo bay: Tori’s two massive suitcases, the oversized duffel, and the four smaller school backpacks. I buckled Maggie into her car seat with a firm click that made her giggle. Chloe climbed in beside her, clutching her rabbit, while Eli claimed the front passenger seat, staring through the windshield with his arms crossed over his chest, his posture rigid with an odd, electric curiosity.

"Where are we going, Grandma?" Chloe called from the third row, her voice small against the hum of the engine.

"Oak Crest Lane," I said, shifting into reverse.

Finn poked his head between the front bucket seats. "Grandma Patrice's house?"

"Yes, Finn. Grandma Patrice’s house."

Eli let out a slow whistle through his teeth. "Mom is going to lose her mind."

"Your mother is currently somewhere over Minnesota," I said, checking my mirrors as I backed out into the street. "Her mind will have to catch up with her later."

The drive across town took fourteen minutes. It was seven-forty-five when I turned into Oak Crest Lane, a cul-de-sac lined with manicured Bradford pears that bloomed in the spring with a scent like damp flour. Patrice’s house was a brick colonial that looked as though it had been scrubbed with a toothbrush every Sunday morning since 1984. The lawn was cut to an exact two-and-a-half inches; the brass house numbers were polished to a mirror shine; and in the front flowerbeds, not a single speck of mulch dared to cross the black plastic edging.

Patrice and I had maintained an armed truce for fourteen years.

She was a retired interior designer who wore silk scarves to soccer games and spoke about table linens with the moral gravity of an Old Testament prophet. She believed I was folksy and disorganized; I believed she was an architectural blueprint masquerading as a grandmother. We traded cards at Christmas with generic messages inside, and we sat on opposite ends of the sofa during Thanksgiving while Caleb carved the turkey.

I put the SUV in park, turned off the ignition, and pulled the keys from the dash.

"Stay here for one minute," I told the children.

The morning air had a bite to it as I walked up the flagstone path. A pair of stone whippets guarded the front stoop. I reached out and pressed the brass doorbell. A four-note chime echoed through the interior of the house like church bells on a foggy pond.

Two minutes passed. Then the deadbolt turned with a sound far heavier than mine had.

Patrice opened the door. She was wearing a quilted navy-blue housecoat, tortoiseshell reading glasses on a silver chain around her neck, and a pair of dark green rubber gardening clogs. Her hair was already pinned into its neat, frosted bob, but she was holding a cup of chamomile tea, and her eyes were puffy with sleep.

She looked at me. She looked past me at the pearl-white SUV idling in her driveway.

"Myrna?" Her voice had that clipped, slightly wounded tone she used when the mail carrier walked across her lawn. "What on earth is happening? Is Caleb all right?"

"Caleb is fine," I said. "He is currently seated in business class, somewhere between Chicago and Seattle, drinking orange juice from a glass."

Patrice blinked. "What are you talking about?"