Behave." "Sorry, Mom," I grinned sheepishly, straightening in my chair. Satisfied, she turned back to the stove, taking two eggs and cracking them in ... glass bowl. Moments later, we were eating breakfast and deep in a discussion of W.S. Merwin's poetry. I'd buried myself in his work for weeks while composing my final paper for American Lit class. Just another meal in our happy home, filled with Mom's great cooking and good conversation. Except that as we ate, I couldn't stop thinking of Mom's. She looked over at Simon, who gave her a smile and squeezed her hand. The little gesture made her feel better. She was torn between believing Emily and believing her mother. She wanted to believe her sister. Out of habit, it seemed she was falling for what her mother said. Not fair, she thought. Not fair at all. She forced herself out of her thoughts. It was a holiday, she was with family for the first time in a while, and Simon was there. Even if it was just pretending, it was good to be with. More

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