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“Miss you too, bub.” We gave one another a hug and huffed.

“Sure you can’t stay just one more night?” He gave me puppy dog eyes, and I really wanted to say yes. But I had work in two days and needed to be there and set everything up.

“I’ll FaceTime you the second I get in there. I promise.” I patted his head. “We can still watch movies together and stuff!”

“Yeah, but it’s not the same if I can’t steal your popcorn and raid your fridge.” He stuck his tongue out. His parents’ frugality had left his dorm fridge quite lacking for the most part. As an only child conceived with what had to have been my mother’s last egg, I was quite spoiled in some ways, but I shared.

Syl was the youngest of four, and while our parents were the same age, he was an oopsie baby, ten years younger than his siblings and not financially planned for. Despite that, he was kinda their favorite—success wise. The only graduate, at least.

“Maybe I’ll find work up near you?” he offered with a shrug as I stood and stowed my computer and things in boxes to carry out. I glanced around my room, the walls adorned with my childhood achievements, the empty drawers and unnecessary neatness. It hadn’t been used full-time in years, and it showed. None of that adolescent funk.

Syl patted my back and walked downstairs with me, giving my mom a tight hug as he passed before flitting through the kitchen to steal a knish from the baking dish my mom left cooling on the counter.

“Syllivan Elisha Goldstein!” Mother shouted at him as he bolted out of the house, giggling like a madman. “Those were for Alexei!”

“I know! You always put so much extra effort in them for him.” Syl took a fierce bite as he hopped into his brother’s old car with a wave.

Mother’s crooked smile made my heart warm. “That boy never grew up.” Her hawkish eyes flicked at me. “But you! You’re growing up too much!” I held my hands up as she poked my chest. “When did you get so big? Moving out, leaving your poor Ima alone! Your father! The poor man is beside himself—”

“No, I’m not! I’m drawing up plans to turn his bedroom into a man cave!” Dad bellowed from the garage, his existing man cave.

“Not before I get my sewing room!” she muttered under her breath and went back to packing food for me as I slipped into the garage to peep at my father staring down at his workbench, a contraption over his face magnifying some tiny model warrior from a tabletop he’d gotten into some years ago after D&D had come up with some update that pissed him off. We used to paint together.

“Can you bring me a fresh cup of water? I could use my current cup as an ink wash at this point.” We glanced over as one to stare at his world’s eh’est dad mug he’d repurposed as his paint cup after the lip chipped.

I grabbed the mug and made it to the bathroom a second before my mother cried out, “Not in the sink!”

I huffed and bent to lift the toilet lid. The fuzzy cozy on it, tickling my fingers just as she called out, “Not the toilet, either! It stains the calcium buildup.”

My father and I groaned as one, the cry of irritated Jewish men everywhere, the universal oi gevalt.

I stepped outside and dumped the paint in some dried-up pan left by the trash cans and rinsed it with the hose then filled it. It’d evaporate there eventually and leave an interesting crust I could inspect later—maybe. I wasn’t sure when I’d be back.

I walked back in, mug in hand, and my father beamed before swishing his little fan brush in it a few times to let me inspect his work. Some fantasy troop of greenish ugly men wearing what had been painstakingly sculpted and painted on them to resemble what looked like Burger King uniforms. He always did have a sense of humor, and I loved it.

“Oi, kan I git yous any fries wit dat waagh?” He put on a horrid, brusk cockney accent and puppeted the little soldier, and I laughed.

“I’m good for today, I think.” I opened my arms as Dad put the toy down and gave me a hug.

“Well, don’t be a stranger. Call if you need anything. Anything. Money, a place to live, anything. You always have a home here.”

“You can sleep under my sewing table!” Mom shouted around the corner, and I flinched.

“I’ll try my best not to come home and intrude upon your crafts, Mother dearest,” I said, calling back down the hall.

Dad and I hugged once more, and he tucked a little folded-up wad of cash into my pocket with a pat. “Find yourself a nice husband out there. Try for someone who plays tabletop games!”

Dated a guy like that for a month.

Eh.

“We’ll see.” I smiled and waved as I set out, stumbling as Mom met me in the hall and thrusted a stack of Tupperware into my arms.

“I have potato and cheese knishes in the blue-lidded ones. The red-lidded ones are lamb.” She pointed to a cooler by the kitchen island and gestured at it. “And I put your almond milk in there because none of us drink it. I know the real stuff—”

“Mom, I’m fine. I have money. I can buy my own groceries.”

“And I have more money than you and want to help. Save your money.” She waved me off, and I rolled my eyes with a smile and carried the stuff out to my moderately priced four-door sedan in generic gunmetal gray.