I said: I wanted a home where nobody had to earn the right to belong.
We moved on. I forgot I had said it.
Three days before Christmas, I was in the kitchen when my phone buzzed.
My mother.
I opened the message expecting an arrival time or a question about directions.
The message said: we’re not coming for Christmas. Your sister needs groceries and some help around her apartment. Maybe another weekend.
Brooke was twenty-eight years old. She had her own car. She lived eleven minutes from my parents. There were three grocery stores within reasonable distance of her apartment.
I read the message twice.
I looked at the dining table. I looked at the four place settings. I looked at the coffee on the counter and the marmalade I had driven forty minutes to find.
I typed two words.
All good.
I put the phone face down on the counter.
