“Your mother likes getting the motion alerts on her phone,” he said, settling his glasses back on his nose.

“She says it stops the delivery drivers from leaving packages on the bottom step.”

I left Emma perched on the edge of my father’s footstool and went down the hall toward the kitchen.

My sister Vanessa was standing by the island.

She had her arms folded tight across her chest and was watching her six-year-old, Olivia, lay cloth napkins beside six ceramic plates.

“You have to tuck the corners under, Olivia,” Vanessa said.