Enid is my family now.

Not instead of my mother, who I call on Sundays and pick up every time, and who has met Enid and the two of them are frankly a menace together, two sharp women ganging up on me with love.

And not instead of Enid’s own children, who come around more now, Sherry every season and even the son from Arizona last Christmas, and who have folded me in as the strange extra grandchild nobody can quite account for and everyone has decided to keep.

I set two cups down at the coffee pot every morning now, on purpose, and neither of us puts one back.