My father opened the door.
“Allison,” he said, like I was a neighbor who had arrived early.
“Hi, Dad.”
He gave me a stiff hug that touched shoulders but not heart.
Inside, the house smelled like turkey, sage, and the particular tension of people pretending not to remember what they have done. My mother stood in the kitchen wearing an apron that said Give Thanks. She looked older, but not softer. Her hair was shorter. Her mouth tightened when she saw me, then rearranged itself into a hostess smile.
“You made it.”
“I said I would.”
Connor was in the living room with his wife, Megan, and their toddler. He had filled out into a man who looked like my father from certain angles, especially when he avoided responsibility. He hugged me one-handed without getting up fully from the couch.
Dinner was polite enough to feel worse than arguing.
My father talked about property taxes and a neighbor’s new fence. Connor talked about a business idea involving mobile detailing and subscription packages. Mom asked if I still lived “downtown,” even though I had explained Chicago neighborhoods twice. No one mentioned Grandma Ruth. No one mentioned college. No one mentioned fire.
Then the phone rang.
It was the landline, which startled me because I did not know they still had one. The sound cut through the dining room so sharply even Connor’s toddler stopped banging a spoon against the high chair.
My mother looked at the caller ID.
Her face changed.
She picked up slowly. “Hello?”
We all watched her.
At first, she said nothing. Then her fingers tightened around the receiver.
“Yes,” she said.
A pause.
“You mean Connor?”
Her voice cracked on his name, not with grief, but confusion.
My father leaned forward. “What is it?”
Mom did not answer him. Her eyes were fixed on the wall behind me.
“Yes,” she said again, slower. “We understand.”
She hung up, but her hand remained on the phone. Trembling.
The room felt suddenly smaller.
“Well?” Dad snapped. “Who was that?”
Mom swallowed.
“A lawyer.”
Connor straightened.
“For what?” Dad asked.
Mom looked at me for half a second, then away.
“It’s about my mother.”
My fork lowered to the plate.
“What about Grandma Ruth?” I asked.