“Your sister’s family gets the guest room. Your kids can sleep on the floor.” Mom tossed two sleeping bags at my six-year-old. My sister laughed. “Should’ve booked a hotel.” I looked at my children kneeling, whispered, “Pack your things, babies,” and we left at 11 p.m. Three days later, Mom discovered what I quietly canceled.

Four of us on the porch, loaded up like people arriving somewhere they belonged.

The door was unlocked. It always is when Ashley gets there first.

Inside, the house smelled like Mom’s pot roast, the one she starts at noon, the one that makes the whole first floor feel like a warm hand on your back. Coats on the hooks by the door. Ashley’s red puffer. Her daughter Mackenzie’s pink jacket. Her son Jordan’s dinosaur hoodie. Mom’s gray cardigan.

Five coats. Five hooks.

I hung ours on the banister. There wasn’t room.

The guest room door was closed. Mackenzie and Jordan were already inside, giggling, settled. Shoes lined up by the bed. Suitcases unzipped. Jordan’s iPad charging on the nightstand.

They’d been there since Tuesday.

Mom came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. Smiled. Kissed my cheek.

“There’s my girl. Oh, you brought the pie. Set it on the counter, honey.”

She picked up Ellie and bounced her once. “My little pumpkin.”

Then set her down and turned back to the kitchen.

“Ashley! Lauren’s here!”