Page 173 of End Game

The tree lights are no longer blinking either—someone changed them to a steady setting while I was gone.

My mother doesn’t mention either accommodation, and I don’t thank her for them because I know she isn’t looking for recognition.

We simply finish brunch.

It gets easier after that, although I wouldn’t call it easy.

Dad asks Micah about the tattoo shop. Margot tells Cami a story about something ridiculous one of her children did at school, and Mom begins packing enough leftovers for all five of us despite multiple reassurances that Griffin and Dex are working today and we already have food at home.

Normal pieces of my family—or these three members of my family—slowly work their way back in around the difficult ones.

That helps.

Eventually, we’re standing near the front door while Micah tries to manage three containers of leftovers at once.

Mom hugs Cami again, then Micah, and finally me.

Her cheek presses against my shoulder. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

She pulls back, but leaves her hands on my upper arm. “I am sorry if I made you feel like you were the problem.”

My throat tightens. “Thank you.”

“I don’t think you’re the problem.”

“I know.”

Her mouth trembles. “And I don’t think Cami is either.”

“I know that too.”

“I just don’t know how to fix this.”

There are probably a thousand possible answers, and many of them would be cruel precisely because they’re true.

I choose the one that matters. “You might not be able to fix it.”

Her eyes fill again.

I continue before she can interpret that as hopelessness. “But you also don’t have to solve it today.”

Apparently Micah is rubbing off on me as well.

Mom gives me a sad smile. “No, I guess I don’t.”

I kiss her forehead and step back.

Cami doesn’t look toward the garage once as we walk to the car.

Micah takes the driver’s seat because my nervous system has reached its daily allocation of useful participation, and I don’t see any reason to make the twenty-minute drive home unnecessarily difficult.

Cami sits in the back with me, leaving Micah to act as a chauffeur of sorts.

The moment we’re moving, she turns toward me and starts curling into my side. She makes sure I see the contact coming and lift my arm to make room for her before her cheek settles against my chest.

“How bad was that?” she asks.