My granddaughter called me from the hospital at 3:17 in the morning, and before I even reached the ER, I already knew this was the night everything in our family would finally come into the open.

“There,” I said. “See? Less existential.”

She snorted.

Later that week, Diane joined us for dinner for the first time outside Camille’s office. I had not been certain Brooke would want that, but she had asked. Not eagerly. Not resentfully. Simply asked, which in our house had become the most trustworthy category of progress.

I cooked salmon, asparagus, and farro because I believe in meals that require a little attention but not theatricality. Diane arrived carrying a pie she clearly had not baked herself, which was fine. Brooke hugged her awkwardly at the door. There are reunions that look warm from the outside and are, in fact, emotionally exacting engineering projects. This was one of those.

We sat. We ate. We discussed school schedules, Brooke’s summer reading list, the fact that Diane’s temporary apartment had an air conditioner that sounded like an outboard motor.

At one point Diane said, “I saw your debate clip online. The environmental policy one.”

Brooke kept her eyes on her plate. “Oh.”

“You were good.”

Brooke took a sip of water. “Thanks.”