Mom slid her purse over one shoulder on her way through the living room. “There’s leftover lasagna in the fridge. And there’s some bagged salad.” I nodded absently and flipped the channel to VH1 concert footage from one of the kids’ networks— where I was not trying to catch a glimpse of my ex-girlfriend Addison, who’d dumped me for a chance at stardom when she was cast in a pilot. “Tod.” Mom sat on the coffee table, right in front of the television. “Did you hear me?” “Yeah.” I leaned to the left and she mimicked my movement. “Lasagna. Salad. Got it.” “I’m serious. Eat something green, okay?” She snatched the remote and aimed it over her shoulder, and a second later the screen went dark. I started to complain, but then I noticed how tired she looked—the beginnings of lines on a face that would look thirty years old for the next half a century—and came up with a grin instead. “Do Skittles count?” Mom rolled her eyes. She never could resist my smile.
