She got into her car and backed out of the space without looking back at me.

By six thirty, Mark was standing in our farmhouse kitchen with his expensive brown leather duffel bag unzipped on the table.

He folded a pair of pressed khaki pants and smoothed the fabric flat with his palm.

“Mom has been stressed about her roof repairs all summer,” Mark said, his tone light and reasonable.

“Taking her and Evelyn away for three days is the right thing to do.”

I stood by the kitchen counter, my hands resting flat on the yellow Formica edge.