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says.
    She walks out like a disappointed puppy. What an actress. I’m quite the actress too, because as soon as she leaves, I practically run through our new place as if I’m on a timed shopping spree. I open every drawer and cupboard in the kitchen to find that we’re fully equipped with matching pots and pans, coffeemaker, and utensils, all better versions of what we have. The kitchen has a bay window that overlooks some of the lawn and the driveway. I look down at my mom unloading a box, and my heart breaks for her a bit.
    I rummage through the kitchen box she brought up, locating our magnets, one for each home we’ve lived in—a HarleyDavidson, an orange tabby cat, a banana, a Buddha, and from Kailua: Da Kine Plumbing and Heating. Now we’ll need another. I put them on our new fridge. There. Home. I’ve marked my territory.
    I open more kitchen drawers. There’s even cleaning supplies and paper towels and napkins—it’s like going to a vacation house, which is exactly what this is, I guess. I notice a bottle of red wine and another bouquet of flowers by the microwave, along with a note—
Everyone co
uld use some Flowers
! Welcome home. xoxo
Mels.
The bottle says Flowers Pinot Noir.
    My mom comes back in, and I show her the bottle.
    â€œYum,” she says. “That’s a good one.”
    I read something else in her expression, something like weariness, like she’s about to go to work. She puts a box marked
kitchen
on the counter, and I tell her about all the things already here.
    â€œShould we bother unpacking our kitchen stuff?” I ask.
    â€œI guess we could leave our things in the garage.” She follows my path, opening drawers, then looks around with her hands on her hips, surveying the place.
    â€œHave you looked in the rooms yet?” she asks.
    â€œWas just about to,” I say.
    â€œTake a look. I’ll leave some stuff in the garage and bring up the rest. There’s probably towels and sheets here. I didn’t think about that.”
    â€œMaybe we’ll get full wardrobes too,” I say, but she doesn’tregister my joke. She never does—says I’m always getting stuck in Joke Town.
    She takes the box she just brought up, and when she leaves, I open every closet I see around the main room before looking into each of the three bedrooms. The two bedrooms on the beach side share a bathroom, and each has a walk-in closet. The bedroom nearest the avenue is clearly the master because of its size, yet the smaller rooms have the best views of the ocean. I guess the arrangement is so the master bedroom doesn’t overlook the main house, which would lessen its mastery.
    My liking of the whole package—the decorations, the layout, the possibility of a life here—soon turns into entitlement, like of course I should have all this. I deserve no less. For a moment, I even inwardly balk at the fact that the laundry room is all the way downstairs in the garage. I guess it’s pretty easy to adapt to better surroundings.
    I wheel my suitcase into the doorway of the small room that sits away from the driveway. I could have both rooms if I wanted. Or one could be my art room or yoga room or ballet studio or meditation room! I do none of these things, but suddenly want to. It’s like getting something for free, for a limited time, and you feel a certain pressure to wring out every last drop. A ukulele room!
    My mom walks into the room I’ve decided to take with another one of my suitcases.
    â€œThis one yours?” she asks.
    â€œYeah,” I say, as if not really sure.
    â€œNice,” she says. “Everything is so lovely.”
    â€œDid you see yours?” I ask.
    She puts her arm around me. “I did. The bed is like a hotel bed.”
    â€œYour favorite,” I say.
    The room has the same dark wood floors as the rest of the house. There’s a high bed with a puffy white comforter and big, full