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move us back to Georgia everything seemed so urgent. Grandpa had a stroke; time seemed of the essence. We needed to get back home and mend fences before it was too late. So now why the dispassion? “You said you were ready to reconcile with Grandma and Grandpa. Don’t back down, Mom,” I said encouragingly, selfishly, because I didn’t like having a family divided.
    Mom didn’t respond. She just looked over at Oompa. He had propped his ear against the wall in a desperate attempt to hear the soft reverberation of Cher’s throaty voice. When no lyrics sounded, Oompa moved away from the wall, climbed onto the couch, and burped like a human with indigestion.
    Mom got up and stared at the wall like she was mentally planning where to hang her Casablanca movie poster. “When we moved to Vegas it was, I don’t know, rebellion I guess. I was tired of Grandma trying to mold me into a mini-version of herself.” She sighed. “And Vegas is the exact opposite of their quiet, conventional life.” She turned and smiled at me. “But I’m thirty-three years old and it’s time to grow up, get a real job and live a more normal life.”
    I stared at her. We could live a more normal life anywhere. We came back to Worthington, Georgia because she wanted to reunite with her parents.
    Mom made a big production of looking at her watch. “We’ve been here for fifty-three minutes and I just drove for two days. Cut me some slack! I’ll call Grandma and Grandpa. Just let me rest a little.”
    I wanted to tell her not to be nervous. We’d be one big, happy family again.
    I put my arm around her and we continued to stare at the blank wall. “I never thought I’d say this, but I kind of miss Cher right now.”
    Oompa buried his nose under his paws and sighed.
    From the kitchen table my cell phone buzzed that I had a message. I picked it up and saw that Max had texted. U here yet? I smiled. Max .
    Technically, the first time I met Max, I was still in the womb. My mother had sat next to Max’s mom when they were both in Dr. Wendall’s waiting room, both nine months pregnant with bulging bellies and swollen ankles, both facing huge opposition from their families. My mother, the daughter of the Worthington, Georgia, town judge and his garden club president wife, was pregnant at sixteen—a scandalous shame for such a reputable family. Max’s mother, Maria, was ten years older and married, but her family was unhappy that she had chosen to marry outside their culture. Not Latino! Not Catholic! Didn’t speak a word of Spanish! Didn’t know the difference between a tortilla and a gorilla! Never mind the fact that Max’s father was a hardworking and honest man; Maria’s family was old school in their customs and very unforgiving. So Mom and Maria bonded in their parents’ judgment.
    When Max was born two weeks before I was, Mom said every time Max cried I kicked inside her like I was just dying to get out and meet my playmate. And when I did arrive, all squirmy and screaming, I was a colicky mess, crying nonstop until one day Maria came over and placed Max on the couch next to me and miraculously I stopped. Whether it was the warmth of his body or the comfort of his fast-ticking heartbeat so close to mine, we’ll never know, but anytime Max was around I was happy. And so was he.
    Every story of my childhood somehow involved Max. Every preschool picture I drew included him. Mom saved all the notes from our preschool teachers: Max and Willow play so nicely together! Notes from the day care: Max and Willow love to play Legos together and they only fight when Willow keeps insisting on kissing him! Notes from our elementary teachers: Could you please ask Max and Willow to refrain from passing notes during class? It’s quite distracting. Notes from Principal Wells: It has come to my attention that Max and Willow have each forged a doctor’s