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“Of course. Is it a large gathering?”

“Yes.”

“How large?”

“I’ve never counted.”

My father spoke from the background. “Ask whether his family owns commercial property.”

“I’m not asking him that.”

“You said they own an entire block,” Mom reminded me.

“Patty said that.”

“And she knows him.”

I groaned. “Not in a financial-advisor capacity.”

Mom ignored this. “Does Hudson intend to stay on his family’s property permanently?”

“Why are you interrogating me?” I finally asked.

“We’re interested. In him. In your life.”

The words came so easily I nearly laughed. “No, you’re not.”

Silence followed.

My mother recovered first. “That’s unfair.”

“Is it?”

“We call you all the time, Sloane.”

“Yes, and you only ask about work and Hudson.”

“What else should we ask about?”

The question was so revealing that I had none.

My father entered the conversation. “We had lunch with the Hendersons today.”

Then, without transition, they began describing the Hendersons’ kitchen renovation. The countertops were delayed. The contractor had ordered the wrong fixtures. Their daughter had enrolled her twins in a private preschool with a waitlist.

My parents had considered redoing their patio but decided travel was a better investment.

They were planning a spring trip. They might stay three weeks.

I made small noises at the appropriate intervals. They hardly noticed.

After twelve minutes, Mom returned briefly to Hudson. “Send us a recent picture,” she said.

“Why?”

“We want to see what he looks like.”

“You’ve seen the Wall of Fame photo.”