Evicted from the marital bedroom when the hospital bed arrived, Phil had been sleeping in Katie’s old room, but he insisted on moving to the sofa during her visit. Frankly, she was relieved to be in her old bed. In her old room. With the door shut. She’d spent her childhood in this room. To some extent, even today, wherever she was, she was still i

She’d walked maybe halfway to her car down the condo’s long eucalyptus-lined driveway when it occurred to her that everything was okay. She could stop fighting the way things had turned out. It was still sad that Sib had died and unfortunate that Phil was with IckyPam (so far), but somehow, she no longer had to resist or protest these facts. Everyt

She tried to get past this—Come on, Katie, rub a little lotion or you’ll hate yourself later—but she couldn’t make herself pick up the Nivea.

“Mrs. Samuelson,” she says. “Sandro is nine years old. School is not the most important thing in his life. We are. His family. Here, with us, he’s a happy kid. He will figure things out. If advanced classes and college are important to him, maybe he will start talking. But I can’t make him. It’s up to him.”