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“We thought Louie was being generous. He and Lil always liked you,” Mom says.

“Jess was their favorite,” Connie says. “The daughter they never had.”

“And on the face of it, it sounded like a good idea,” my father reasons. “Your mother and I were concerned that you would need money down the road. We were looking out for you. For your future.”

“Especially after the divorce. You walked out on Bobby and took nothing,” my mother reminds me.

“I didn’t need anything! I was no longer a wife, and the role of maiden aunt was waiting for me right here in your house. I startedcooking and cleaning and dressing your wounds. Every family needs a maiden aunt who will give up her life in order to give her family a better one.” I pick up the sfogliatelle and throw them in the trash.

“Those were good!” Mom yells.

“Not anymore,” I shout.

“Please. Jess. We know you have your own life; we respect that,” Connie says calmly.

“Do you? Where were you when I was crying my eyes out in the cellar?” I turn and face my parents. “Connie and Joe have less of an anxiety level about your welfare because they know I’m here to take care of you, and I’ll do what needs to be done. Like Mom’s knee replacement and Dad’s shoulder ordeal.”

“We are ambulatory!” my father barks.

“I am good for everyone but me.” I drop my voice. “When you say you have my best interests at heart, I don’t believe you. You use me and expect me to be grateful for that privilege.”

“You make us sound horrible,” my mother says. “I lay this all at Louie’s feet. He left us in emotional disarray! If he were alive, I’d put him on the Island.”

“Of course you would, Ma. He knew exactly who you were.”

“I was his sister!”

“His fragile sister,” I clarify.

“Fragile? I’m married to a regular Zamboni,” Dad says quietly. “At work they call me Flat Joe.”

“And there it is. The one thing we do really well in this family is role definition. So, let’s say it: I am the maiden aunt. I’ve become Zia Giuseppina.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Dad says.

“Isn’t that the plan?” I look at my brother and my sister. “That I get so bitter and angry and comfortable in my loneliness that I calcify like a barnacle on the cement walls in the basement and never leave?”

“I Sheetrocked them,” Dad says sheepishly.

“Don’t worry, Jess. We plan to participate in the care of our parents down the line,” Joe says calmly.

“Really? Couldn’t get you two to cover for me when Lisa Natalizio invited me for a girls’ weekend in Bermuda.” I turn to Connie. “You had gymnastics.” I look at my brother. “And you had tickets to basketball homecoming at Notre Dame. I didn’t go on the trip because there was no one here to help.”

“You could’ve gone,” Mom says.

“Only to return and find you sitting in your own filth?”

“We’re all better now,” Dad says.

“Let’s look at this situation honestly,” I begin. “You both live an hour away, longer in traffic. Your kids will be in high school and college in ten years, when Mom will be pushing eighty and Dad will be older. You won’t have time to take care of them.”

“Oh, just put us in the Little Sisters of the Poor Home and call it a day!” my mother cries.

“We’re not going to do that, Ma,” I promise her.

Connie looks at me. Joe looks at Connie. Despite our differences, we grew up with the same parents. I understand how they feel. In many ways, we are three strangers who witnessed the same car wreck and arrived at the same conclusion about who was at fault for the accident. We may argue, but we have yet to send one another to the Island. We are pretty good problem solvers and possess the cool heads that skipped our baby boomer parents.

“You have a point, Jess.” Connie sighs. “We don’t think ahead.”