They chose a cashmere-wrapped dog over my children at Mom’s birthday dinner, so I took my kids home—at 9 PM, Mom’s desperate text revealed she had no idea who actually controlled the heat. “Your kids can wait in the car during dinner. The twins just don’t like having them around.”

By Sunday evening, the transformation was complete.

The house at 44 Elmwood Terrace was no longer a museum of pretense. The temperature inside had leveled off at a solid seventy degrees, the radiators clicking a steady, comfortable rhythm against the baseboards.

The dining room table had been cleared of all legal papers.

In the center of the mahogany table, sitting on a hand-woven runner that Mom had pulled out of an old trunk, was Owen’s cedar jewelry box. Mom had already placed her grandmother’s pearl necklace and her wedding band inside it.

Above the fireplace, in the very spot where Brooke had previously hung an oversized, pretentious oil portrait of her show dogs, hung Lucy’s watercolor painting.

The frame was slightly crooked because Lucy had helped drive the nail, but neither Mom nor I adjusted it. The painted robin looked out over the warm room, its crooked little beak singing to the empty chairs.

The front door opened, and Brooke walked in carrying a laundry basket full of folded sheets.

She looked tired, her face scrubbed clean of heavy makeup, wearing an old gray sweatshirt of mine that she had found in the hall closet. But for the first time in ten years, she didn't look like she was about to explode from stress.

“The kids are asleep at your place,” Brooke said, setting the basket down on the sideboard. “Owen showed Mason his baseball card collection. I think Mason is going to trade his vintage sneakers for a 1989 Ken Griffey Jr. card.”

I chuckled from the kitchen doorway where I was checking the water pressure under the sink. “That’s a terrible trade for Mason.”

“Mason doesn't care,” Brooke smiled softly. “He said Owen is the coolest guy he knows.”

Brooke walked over to the fireplace, stopping beneath Lucy’s painting. She looked up at the crude, vibrant watercolor of the house.

“It really is a beautiful picture,” Brooke murmured.

“It has honest colors,” I replied.

Brooke turned around, leaning her back against the brick hearth. She looked at me for a long time, the warmth from the roaring fire illuminating the hollows of her cheeks.

“Mark is checking into a halfway facility tomorrow,” she said. “He’s entering a recovery program for gambling addiction. His brother is paying for the intake.”