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Mom’s running at all late.
    After eight minutes of impatient stop signs and pausing to let joggers, dog walkers, and baby strollers cross at every corner, I pull into the driveway and hit my garage door remote. Mom is waiting at the top of the stairs. She’s still in a gray pencil skirt and white-collared blouse, but she looks rumpled. Her sleeves are rolled up, and wisps of dark hair have escaped from her bobby pins. So much for fifteen minutes. Or even five.
    I want to turn around and retreat to my car, to make up an excuse and go get the mail—anything to create just a minute of me time. Instead I notice her nervous energy, the way she’s half reaching for me, as if she’s going to pull me up the last step and into the kitchen. I take a deep breath, close the space for a quick hug, and manage a calm voice: “You’re home early.”
    She laces her fingers together and looks down at the toes of her pumps. “I took a half day. It was too hard to focus. I keep thinking about tomorrow. I need everything to be perfect for your father.”
    I look beyond her shoes to the mess she’s already created in the foyer: her coat slung over the banister, a coffee mugon the antique bureau, her purse on one stair, her briefcase on another, and her keys—for some reason—on the floor.
    “How about we stay home? I’ll make tea and you can change out of your work clothes.”
    Mom looks up. Almost-formed tears cling to her eyelashes as she blinks with surprise. “But it’s Friday, we’ve got manicures. And look at that chip on your nail.”
    “I can just touch it up. We could reschedule. What if we go on Monday?”
    “We always go on Friday. We’ve got appointments.”
    I open my mouth to protest, but a smudge of mascara under her left eye stops me. She’s been crying. “Okay.”
    Mom nods. “Go on, put away your bag, then we’ll leave.”
    I obey, climbing the stairs to my bedroom, hanging my bag on its hook on the back of my door, swapping my wallet and phone into a purse, and grabbing that instead. I allow myself one forlorn glance at my bed, flipping over the pillowcase so I can’t see the mascara tear stains from last night. Then I head downstairs to where Mom is waiting, keys in hand.

7  
 
Jonah
 
  2:29 P.M.
HALF-PAST GUILT
    Mom meets me at the door wearing my baby sister in a sling around her neck. She’s also wearing a burp cloth, a splatter of baby spit-up, and a frazzled expression. She looks like a walking advertisement for birth control, but she claims to love her new life as a stay-at-home mom.
    “Jonah, buddy—” she begins, reaching up to unwind the sling and smiling hopefully.
    I step to the side before she can get it off. “Hey, Mom. I’ve got to get going, I’m meeting Carly.”
    “Could you change your plans? Have Carly come here instead?”
    “No way in hell—”
    She cuts me off with a disapproving frown and mouths the word “language” while covering Sophia’s ears.
    I look around for Paul, because Mom’s still rational most of the time. I don’t see him. “She can’t even talk yet.”
    “But she can listen. Is that the example you want to be setting?” She’s smiling though, so at least she recognizes she’s being insane.
    “Damn, I guess I’m a crappy big brother then. You wouldn’t want a screwup with such foul language around Sophia.”
    She laughs. “I’m glad to see the swear jar was effective. We’ll have to charge this one a dollar instead of a quarter.”
    “That one” will be able to afford a dollar a swear. I’m sure Paul will pay her allowance in gold coins if she asks.
    “Oh, please, Jonah. Our babysitter canceled, and Paul and I have dinner reservations. You’d really be helping us out.”
    She must be desperate if she’d ask me. Paul always hovers when I’m holding Sophia—like he needs to be ready to swoop in and rescue his precious daughter in case I decide to shake or drop her. And Carly—well, if I see Sophia as a reason to use birth