The door opened and my mother came in first, tanned, carrying a new designer bag, Brett and Talia behind her with their rolling suitcases, all of them mid-laugh.

“Dahlia!” my mother called toward the kitchen.

“I hope you aired the place out, it smelled like a nursing home when we left.”

Then she stepped into the living room and saw the urn, and stopped.

Her smile went out.

“What is that?”

I didn’t answer at once.

Brett set his bag down.