“T’ve been thinking . . .” my mom says as I open the refrigerator door. “Or I should say I’ve hatched a plan.” I grab a bottle of Pellegrino, the plastic basket of cherry tomatoes, and the watery tub of burrata cheese. “Oh, no,” I say. “What have you done?” My mom laughs. She’s always had such a great laugh. It’s very carefree, very young. Mine is inconsistent. Sometimes it’s loud; sometimes it’s wheezy. Other times I sound like an old man. David used to say he thought my old-man laugh was the most genuine, because no one in their right mind would want to sound like that. Now I’m trying to remember the last time it happened. “I haven’t done anything yet,” my mom says. “It’s still in the idea phase. But I’m thinking I want to come visit.” I don’t say anything for a moment, weighing the pros and cons, as I chew the massive chunk of cheese I just put in my mouth. Con: she will critique every single outfit I wear in her presence. Pro: she will make macaroni and cheese and coconut cake. Con: she will ask me if ’m OK every three seconds. Pro: for at least a few days, when I come home, this apartment will not be empty. I swallow. “OK,” I say finally. “Great idea. I can take you to a show, maybe.” “Oh, thank goodness,” she says. “I already booked the ticket.” “Mom,” I say, groaning. “What? I could have canceled it if you’d said no. But you didn’t. So great. I’ll be there in about two weeks. That works, right?” I knew this was going to happen as soon as my mom partially retired from teaching last year. She spent decades as the head of the science department at a private high school, and the moment she told me she was stepping down and only teaching two classes, I knew that extra time and attention would have to go somewhere. “Yeah, that works,” I say as I cut up the tomatoes and pour olive oil on them. “I just want to make sure you’re OK,” my mom says. “I want to be there. You shouldn’t—” “I know, Mom,” I say, cutting her off. “I know. I get it. Thank you. For coming. It will be fun.”