Most nights Austin disappeared into the garage. He was fixing an old motorcycle out there. It didn’t run, hadn’t run since before his father died.

Most nights Austin disappeared into the garage.

I had told him it was a junker from an uncle, though lately he had stopped repeating the line back to me, and I had stopped offering it.

Footsteps on the stairs pulled me back.

I turned, and there he was, my boy in a charcoal suit, his tie a little crooked.

“Well?” he asked, holding out his arms.

“Come here. Your boutonniere is fighting you. And your tie.”

“Jamie tried to fix it after school,” he said, glancing down. “Apparently neither of us can knot a Windsor.”

“Well?”

“Jamie,” I repeated, smiling because he was smiling.

The name slid past me like a dozen other names from a dozen other afternoons.

“A friend,” Austin said, and shrugged.

He stepped close and let me pin the flower. Austin smelled like his father’s old cologne, the bottle I had left on the dresser and never moved.

“You clean up all right, kid.”

“That bad, huh?”

“A friend.”

“I said all right. Don’t push it.”

Austin laughed, and the sound undid something tight in my chest. I hadn’t heard him laugh like that since fall.

“So,” I said, “do I get a name? Or am I supposed to guess?”

His eyes flicked somewhere past my shoulder. “She’s meeting me here.”

“Meeting you. Here. That’s bold of her.”

“Mom.”

“What? I promise to be normal. Mostly normal. I have a camera and a will to use it.”

“I said all right. Don’t push it.”

Austin shook his head, smiling at the floor. “Just don’t ask a thousand questions, okay?”

“No promises.”

“Mom. Please.”

“Go wait on the porch. I’ll grab the camera.”

I picked it up from the counter, looped the strap around my wrist, and followed him outside. I leaned against the porch rail beside my son and waited for a shy girl in a pastel dress.

Then headlights swept the driveway.

“No promises.”

The car door opened with a soft click.

I lifted the camera, my finger ready on the button, my smile already in place for the teenage girl I expected.

But the woman who stepped out was not a teenage girl.

She was tall, mid-forties, in a dark dress that fit too well for a high school gym.

Red lipstick.

A small handbag tucked under one arm.

For one stupid second, I thought she had the wrong address.

The woman who stepped out was not a teenage girl.

“Mom,” Austin called over his shoulder, “this is Vanessa.”

My smile froze.

I knew that face.

Older now, softer around the edges, but unmistakable.

The half-sister of the man I had buried nine years ago. The woman I had cut out of our lives after the will, after the lawyers, after the things she said at the funeral that I could never forgive.