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“Do you all remember that one Fourth of July years ago?” Cyrus asked. “This house was packed with guests and the huge light fixture in the entryway broke.”

Sputtering out a laugh, I said, “When it came crashing to the floor, I almost pissed my pants because I knew we were all in trouble.”

“I remember Dad saying, ‘What the hell is going on out there?’” Edison said, perfectly capturing our father’s gruff tone that instantly made you snap to.

“I started crying,” Fancy recalled.

Ozzie pointed at Cyrus. “And Cy was trying to get our stories straight in the five seconds it took for our parents to reach the hall.”

“Preservation of life, my friend.” Cyrus tipped his beer bottle in Oz’s direction.

“And then Daddy came and looked at all of us and shouted, ‘Who did it?’” I said.

“And then I started crying.” Reese chuckled.

“That chandelier was smashed to pieces, scattered all over the hardwood floor,” Ozzie said. “And our mothers were trying to calm the guests while blocking off the area so no one got hurt.”

Fancy chuckled. “I was just praying we made it through the night without getting whoopings.”

“And then Ozzie took the blame,” Edison said.

“I tried to, but Dial wouldn’t let me.”

Ozzie was always taking responsibility for stuff to protect us. And I knew my punishment would be far less severe. When it came to his son, Mr. Palmer was a hardass who didn’t allow much wiggle room for mistakes. To prevent Ozzie from being grounded the remainder of the summer, I’d spoken up and said I did it.

“Wait, who really broke the light?” Maple asked.

We all looked at each other and pointed to Cyrus.

“In my defense, I threw the ball and your dad didn’t catch it, causing it to hit the chandelier.”

“That still technically makes it your fault,” Edison said.

Just among the six adults at this table, there were decades of memories. It was like I could still hear our laughter and shouting outside while we played freeze tag or aliens versus cowboys. My childhood had been perfect, and it made me believe adulthood would be just as idyllic, with newfound freedom and no one telling me what to do. But somewhere along the way I’d stumbled and never really gotten back up. I was no longer fearless—I was fearful. Afraid to say the wrong thing, make the wrong choice.

Aside from my parents, the individuals in this room were the closest to me. Yes, even Ozzie and Fancy. But of late, so much of my life had comprised pretending. Pretending I was okay, that everything was all right and that a busted shoelace or misplaced set of keys didn’t have the ability to drive me to tears. Anyone I’d ever met would describe me as resilient, but time changed us all. Life was about discovery and evolution. I couldn’t be expected to be the same person I was when I was twenty. Sitting here, amongst those who should know me best, I felt lost because I couldn’t get a handle on who I wanted to be in this next phase of my life. Perhaps that was why I was walking around like a ghost, present but never connected.

“Dial?” Reese whispered.

“What?”

“Maple was asking you a question.”

I looked at my daughter, who was staring up at me with an expectant expression. I’d been so lost in my thoughts that I’d blocked her out. “Sorry, sweetheart, what’s up?”

“Can I watch an episode of Cat Attack while I eat my cake?”

“Uhm… yeah, sure. But just one episode,” I replied. She swung her legs, excited I didn’t push back. “I’m gonna go get some air.”

“I’ll come with you.” Reese moved to stand.

“Nope, I’m good.” I was already halfway to the front door.

Nights in Hume were magical: the rustling in the tall grass, the huge trees that acted like my guardians and protectors. Delicate sunsets that cast a glow on our quaint little town. I loved Hume—it was like my special corner of the world, in which neighbors looked out for one another and generations thrived. You witnessed the friends you went to school with pair off and create mini versions of themselves, and then had the privilege of watching the young ones grow. It was also a mind-fuck, because I still felt like I should be directed to sit at the kids’ table. I’d asked my mother once if I’d ever feel like a capable adult, and she told me that most of the time she still felt sixteen. Which did little to dispel my nagging fears.

I was an imposter, assuming the role of a functioning human. In truth, I was riddled with doubts. Not about work, but about motherhood. Or more like my performance of motherhood. My mother had the right words for any occasion; I accepted early on that while I was from her, I could never be like her—a woman who made her daughter feel seen and heard in a house full of men. She was the blueprint, and as hard as I tried, I was but a faded facsimile in the parenting department.

Oz was the fun parent, and I was the sensible one. The strict one. The one who made sure Maple washed her face and brushed her teeth. I’d known being a parent wasn’t going to be easy, but I hadn’t anticipated it being so hard: second-guessing every response and reaction. Never raising my voice or picking a fight with Ozzie when she was around. The chair in my bedroom was stacked with books on gentle parenting because I couldn’t treat my kid like I did everyone else. And I was constantly pushing down those scary thoughts, because I loved my daughter more than life itself, but sometimes I wanted to run away. I doubted other mothers felt that way about their kids, and I didn’t dare ask for fear of the judgmental looks that would follow.