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She shuffles side-by-side with me through the frozen meals aisle at Whole Foods Market.

“Hey,” I say, the word drawn out by my smile, “dope outfit, Twinkle Toes.”

It’s an old nickname. When Willow was first learning to walk, she took every step on her tiptoes like a prima ballerina. Mom still has video of it on her Facebook page.

Eyes scrunched like cartoonish horizontal commas, Willow cocks her head. Her laugh is buried in Bert’s cape.

“Maybe we could do lasagna from scratch?” Mom suggests. She’s pushing an empty shopping cart down another aisle. “Uncle Dawson might like that.”

“Uncle Dawson likes pulled pork sandwiches and coleslaw,” I say flatly. “He lives on a diet of oven-baked pizzas or whatever Gabriel makes.”

Mom snorts. “Those Cameron men—all terrible cooks.”

“Was Grandpa a bad cook too?”

“Oh, the worst!” Mom’s expression is endlessly fond. “The first time I met your grandparents, Grandpa made undercooked meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Instant food poisoning. I was sick for three days. Your dad thought that was the nail in the coffin of our relationship.”

“Not his George Michael obsession?”

Mom’s head tips back as she cackles. Strands of rose-gold hair brush her cheeks. Her eyes shimmer with the kind of magic memories create.

I’ve seen the photos. Dad’s wardrobe of leather jackets and skintight Wranglers and one of those cross-shaped earrings. Proof that the badass gene obviously skipped a generation when it came to Max Cameron.

“That was slightly worse than Grandpa’s cooking,” Mom concedes.

Grandpa died when I was two years old. I don’t remember much about him: his voice, deep and melodic, his grayish beard, his scent of spearmint gum and fresh-cut grass.

In Dad’s office, pinned to a corkboard stuffed with Post-It reminders, is a Polaroid. It’s of Grandpa and me. My tiny hand is trying to curl around Grandpa’s thick, freckled forearm. The tip of his nose is pressed to the crown of my head.

Dad always swears Grandpa’s life changed for the better when I was adopted. “He finally stopped missing your grandmother. He’d come to visit all the time. Walk right by your mom and me to get to you.” Dad’s eyes are sad when he adds, “And he’d hold you for hours, singing lullabies with made-up lyrics while you slept.”

I wish I could remember. But the euphoric rush that comes from knowing I shared something with Grandpa makes up for that. I can’t recapture all those moments but I’m thankful to have been loved so deeply by a man who wasn’t my own blood. I miss him.

“Angel hair pasta?” Mom suggests.

My nose wrinkles. “Why bother? Neither you nor Dad cooks.”

“Correction: your dad makes scrumptious French toast.”

“The best!” Willow announces to half the dried pasta section.

In a gleeful whisper, Mom adds, “He’s talking about a pumpkin spice recipe.”

“Oh my god, my family has become the definition of basic,” I lament, mouth curving upward. “We’re never gonna recover.”

Mom rubs a hand through my curls. She’s almost as tall as me, but she still stands on her toes. I don’t jerk away. It’s all nice: the pressure of fingertips on my scalp, the warm smile written onto Mom’s lips, Willow’s tiny hand clutched around my middle and ring fingers, laughter pouring out of us like clouds cracked open to release a storm. That’s how laughter can feel—like rainfall after a drought.

The only reason I’m here is to prevent Mom and Willow from overflowing our pantry with granola bars and Nutter Butters. But it feels bigger. It’s as if I’m a part of something, an irreplaceable piece to a puzzle.

And, right on time, the universe steps in to remind me I’m not a part ofsomethingelseanymore.

First, it’s the voice—rough but somehow soothing like thick, raw honey. Then, it’s the hands—strong with long fingers, made to touch and catch and break. My favorite argyle scarf hangs loosely from square shoulders. The tight Maplewood Marauders soccer team T-shirt stretches across a chest built for my head to rest on during lazy Sundays so worn-soft cotton cuddles my cheek while we binge unsolved-murder documentaries—Dimi’s favorite.

Life is so ironic. It’s so damn hilarious, because instead of my head pillowed against Dimi’s chest, there’s a hand with spidery fingers. Pinkish knuckles lead to a thin wrist that’s attached to a guy with blonde, perfectly-styled bed-hair.

Sex hair.

I swallow the acid building at the back of my throat.