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Mom leads me into the kitchen. Something bakes in the oven. A tray of garlic bread waits on the counter beside a bowl of salad. The table beyond the kitchen is set for two, with cloth napkins, wineglasses, and a candle in the center.

“Would you like something to drink?” she asks.

“No, thanks.”

“I’m making lasagna. It’s Carl’s favorite.” She picks up the salad tongs. “He’s had a terrible week.”

“What happened?”

“One of his projects has gone wrong, and he barely slept last night. I thought a proper dinner might help.”

She tosses the salad, then checks the timer on the oven.

“He should be home soon.”

The way she says it is polite but clear. I haven’t arrived at a good time.

“Is something wrong?” she asks.

“No.”

“You don’t usually appear on my doorstep.”

That’s true. I put my hands in my pockets and look toward the table.

“I’ve been thinking about the lunch.”

Her face brightens. “I was so pleased you arranged it. Carl enjoyed seeing everyone, although Daniel could’ve made more effort.”

“I think we could all make more effort.”

“I agree. We shouldn’t leave it so long next time.”

“I don’t mean another lunch.”

The tongs stop moving.

“I don’t know much about you,” I say. “And you don’t know much about me.”

“Of course I know you.”

“Do you?”

Her fingers tighten around the tongs. “Eric, you’re my son.”

“That doesn’t mean you know me.”

Her face tightens, and she sets the tongs on the counter. “I wanted to know you. I tried, but your father made it impossible. Every call had to go through him. Half the time, I didn’t know if you received my messages. He changed plans without telling me and made it clear I wasn’t welcome at the house.”

I know Dad made it hard for her when we were young.

“Did you miss us?” I ask.

“Of course I did.” Her voice rises. “I didn’t know how to reach you.”

“Maybe Dad made that difficult when we were children, but I’ve been an adult for more than twenty years. You didn’t need his permission to call me.”

“I didn’t know if you wanted me to.”