Vanessa had her car washed every Friday morning, and it gleamed spotless in the morning sun.

My mother had the front door open before I got to the top porch step.

She had on a tailored beige cardigan and fiddled with her heavy silver bangle as she looked down at us.

“You’re five minutes late, Rachel,” my mother said.

“The sausage is already warming in the tray.”

“Traffic was slow by the boulevard,” I said, resting my hand on Emma’s shoulder.

My mother bent down, but she didn’t hug Emma.