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stove. She has pink gloves on so as not to chip her fresh manicure or crèmed hands, which I know she would have had done up already in preparation.
    “You’re here!” Her voice is high and excited, so this can’t be good.
    She pulls out her hands from the kitchen sink and lays the pink gloves out on the rack to dry. She beckons me closer. “Come finish, won’t you? I’ve got so much getting ready and making up to do.”
    Mom’s plump cheeks, even poutier lips, and smooth forehead tell a different story. Her clean-up-the-house look, which she has on at the moment, consists of earthy-toned lipstick, rose-pink cheeks, and mascara that matches her brown eyes. The manicure is stock standard.
    “Dad and I will take care of this.” I flutter my hand around the half made-up room. It still needs more chairs, bits and pieces shelved or trashed, and there are dishes to do. “Before the family arrives.”
    “I said for you to arrive at four, didn’t I?”
    At this point, Dad strolls in. He tows Ella behind him, so she doesn’t notice the question lingering between his eyebrows. He shakes his head at Mom.
    “Argh, I guess now is better than never.” She smiles stiffly and leaves.
    “I’ll get everything ready by five thirty, in case Aunty Mia arrives early. It will get done.”
    Instead of imagining me whacking her over the head with the dirty plates, I picture my plan. Greet everyone and ask how either their job or kids are going. Chat to the family. Most importantly, be with Ella and notice her. Easy enough—if Molten Man doesn’t bring up any flashbacks.
    I’m here, damn celebrating. Isn’t that enough of an insult to Him? Plus, Ella will have her favorite Aunty Mia to spoil her rotten—if my dad ever lets go of her—and will otherwise be busy running after her second cousins, Benjamin and Ryder.
    You shouldn’t have come , Molten Man says.
    He’s right. I shouldn’t have come. My husband died yesterday and I’m in rouge, heels and a gorgeous dress. I shake my head. No, that happened months ago. It just feels like yesterday.
    I can’t talk about him, at all really, so I don’t know what’ll happen when my family asks how I’ve been, and without him.
    “Well, I’ll hurry,” Mom says from another room. “I still need to have a shower. Perhaps I should have invited Liam here earlier since you . . . oh, never mind.”
    The fact that other people will be here tonight, enough to distract Mom, should comfort me, but it makes my head spin. People clutter my thoughts. Make me feel like an alien in a Womens’ Rights Convention. People are clingy, loving and then poof! They’re gone. Unreliable. Unaware.
    While Mom makes herself up I set the table, finish the dishes, prepare the food and, when Dad is able to tear himself away from Ella, he helps bring in extra chairs from the garage to seat the guests.
    Aunty Mia and Uncle Stan arrive at five-thirty. When Mom emerges to greet them, I open a cupboard and clank my glass on a shelf in the rush to hide it. Just my luck. When I try to be sociable, she comes out and sees me in a compromising position. The last thing I need is for her to see me with a drink this early on in her night. Especially since now I know she goes through my trash.
    Mom notices me searching the cupboard, and no doubt has seen the glass. She’s not fooled for a second. Her reaction is as quick as a magnet to its counterpart. She frowns and slips around people, chairs and decorations to reach me.
    “You’re . . . ” she tiptoes to look above in the cupboard, but it doesn’t make her heels lift her any higher. “Looking through the old plates and cutlery?”
    What is she talking about? I look where my hands are. Apparently I’m searching through sets of retro plates and matching retro coffee mugs. “Er, sort of.”
    She clicks her tongue, hand poised on her hip.
    “Oops!” I say. “Silly me. Wrong cupboard.”
    Mom draws in a deep breath with closed eyes. When she opens them, I’ve