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I hesitate, unsure of what to do. Mom senses this and drops her arms. I notice a flicker of sadness behind her eyes, but she blinks past it. “Come in, come in,” she beckons, holding the door open for us.

Ellie and I shuffle into the tiny entryway. It smells the same as it did before.How is that even possible?The aroma of Mom’s vegetable lentil soup must be etched into the paint along with the lemon pledge she uses to shine the antique wood furniture, melding together to form one scent that elicits thousands of memories.

“I’ll go tell Dad you’re here.” Mom walks up the stairs and out the back door by the kitchen, where she pauses to shout for him.

Meanwhile, I grab Ellie’s arm and whisper-shout in her ear, “What the hell! She thinks we’re dating now!”

“Rule number one of improv.”

I scrunch my face. “What?”

“Always agree and say yes.”

I scrunch my face harder. “That is the worst rule ever created.”

She chuckles, leaning in to explain, but we’re interrupted by Mom. “Come on up, you two. I made Maria’s favourite, lasagna.”

My stomach rumbles at the thought. I haven’t had Mom’s lasagna in years, and damn is it good. I may look like my mom, but somehow she didn’t pass down her “excellent cook” genes; my best dish is ramen noodles with Cheez Whiz.

After toeing off our shoes, Ellie takes my hand and pulls me up the stairs into the living area. Her comfortable self-assuredness seeps through her hand and into mine just like her warmth.

We pass through the living room with its oversized floral sofas, ticking grandfather clock, and upright piano with a doily atop it along with several stoic family photos. In the kitchen the table is already set with the good china reserved for Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners, fresh rolls, and a square of butter in its dish. Ellie pulls my chair out, which I return with a stern look, but take my seat as she settles next to me.

Dad comes in a moment later, the exact same as I remember him, from his grey Supercuts hairstyle and his thick-rimmed glasses right down to the short-sleeve button-up shirt hanging off his body. While Mom is thick and rounded, Dad is thin and wiry, despite eating every plate set before him and asking for seconds at nearly every meal. He brightens when he sees me, saying nothing, but giving my shoulder a light pat as he passes by to take his usual seat at the head of the table. Dad was a long-haul trucker, so he was gone a lot of the time growing up. Our relationship has always been as reliable yet distant as his treks along the Trans-Canada Highway.

“You must be Ellie,” Dad says. His voice still has the same pastoral tone it’s always had, as if he’s about to sit in a circle of young folk, put his elbows on his knees, and talk about the temptations of the human body and which scriptures to turn to when faced with lust.

“Yes, sir.” Ellie beams her radiant smile at him.

“So how long have you two been seeing each other?” Mom asks, bringing the lasagna over and setting it down on an orange hand-knit potholder.

I’m shaken by this question, with no idea what to say or where to begin. I sit there, gawping like a fish. The last time I told my parents I was dating a woman they returned my news with shocked silence, followed by anAre you sure this is how you want to live your life?

Even though it was years ago, it still stings.

“Oh, for a while now, hey?” Ellie says, taking my hand once more. “It’s one of those things where we started as friends and then turned into more, so it’s hard to remember exactly when things shifted from friends to... friendlier, if you know what I mean.” Ellie winks.Winks!At my mom!

Mom returns the wink with her cawing laugh, followed by a snort eerily similar to my own. “That is so sweet. A love that starts out as a friendship is so wonderful. You know, Wes and I met at church.” She continues to tell the story about a picnic and him sharing his pickle with her (not a euphemism). Meanwhile all I can think is,Who the hell is this woman and what has she done with my mother?And Dad, he’s acting like this is totally normal, like, whywouldn’tI bring my girlfriend over for dinner? What the hell kind of Twilight Zone did I walk in on?

The entire meal passes in the same manner, with polite conversation, swapping stories (several of which are made up by Ellie), and me pinching myself to wake up from this surreal dream. The food is delicious; Mom packs up the leftovers for us to take home, and then serves a homemade strawberry-rhubarb pie and lukewarm Orange Pekoe tea for dessert. Everything is the same, but somehow my parents have been body-snatched.

The whole time, Ellie is a natural. With every warm look she gives me, every touch of my thigh beneath the table, every story she weaves of our history together, she even has me convinced that we’re dating. The idea brings far more comfort than I care to admit. I have to keep reminding myself that it isn’treal, that the butterflies I’m feeling are one-sided, that she’s a convincing actress, and it’s nothing more than that.

After we’re overly full from dinner, Mom and Dad clear the table while I take Ellie to show her my old room, at her request.

Everything else in the house is the same except for this room. Not that my old bedroom reflected who I was at all, with the white metal bed frame, crisp white linens, and faded pink wallpaper. Now it’s home to a crafting table, a sewing machine, and a big comfy chair with an open annotated Bible on an end table next to it. There is an open Rubbermaid container in the centre of the room and everything I left behind is inside.

Ellie doesn’t wait for permission to begin perusing, kneeling before it and taking out one item at a time. She holds up an old framed photo. “This was you?”

I lean against the dresser and nod. “Yup.”

“You look so... different.”

It’s Bethany and me in grade ten. We’re wearing tight layered shirts and skinny jeans, holding each other in a side-hug with our faces pressed together.

“You were so cute,” Ellie states, tapping the girl on the right, the chubbier one with the more rounded features and a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

I huff some air through my nose, not agreeing.