The kitchen smelled like rosemary and butter. Outside, the porch light flickered the way it had since I was a kid, and Noah was lining his crayons up by color on the coffee table, humming the same three notes he always hummed when he felt safe.
“Emma, can you pass me the napkins?” Dad called from the stove. “The cloth ones. Claire wants this dinner to feel special.”
“Since when do we do cloth napkins?”
“Since your sister is bringing home Ethan’s mother.”
Ethan and his mother arrived in a car that didn’t belong on our street.
“Be nice,” Dad warned, pointing the wooden spoon at me. “All of you.”