The workshop did not begin for three days, so I wandered without an itinerary. I bought oranges from a market and watched an old man repair a chair in an open doorway. I kept reaching for my phone to confirm whether my family had found the key, checked out, and fed our mother. Each time, another message waited. Dean had discovered the rental ended early. Corinne wanted my credit-card number to keep it through Sunday. My mother said she could not possibly sleep at Corinne's because of the stairs. I answered once: the folder contains options, and all three of you can choose.

On Christmas morning, Celina invited the stranded guests to her kitchen. A student from Seoul chopped onions. A retired couple from Bristol washed dishes. I made the lemon cake from memory, using a round pan that was too shallow. It rose unevenly and tasted like home without requiring me to manage anyone else's mood. When I checked my phone after lunch, Corinne had sent a photograph of my green folder spread across the rental table. Behind it, everyone wore coats. They had checked out and moved dinner to Dean's apartment. No catastrophe had occurred.

Then my nephew Milo called privately. He admitted he had drawn the card after hearing the adults call me their pack mule. He thought including me in the joke was kinder than leaving me out completely. His apology was clumsy and devastating. I told him he was not responsible for repairing the family, but he was responsible for what he repeated. He asked whether I would come home. I said yes, after the workshop. I promised him I would answer honestly. Before hanging up, he warned me that Corinne had found the receipt section. She was adding figures and asking questions nobody wanted answered.