In the spring, Mom's bridge in Singapore was finished.

She showed us the photos on the TV. It was enormous. A long white curve over blue water, with lights all along it like a necklace.

“You built that?” Ethan said.

“My team built it. I helped.”

“You built that,” I said.

There was a video of the opening ceremony. Thousands of people walking across it for the first time. Her deputy cut the ribbon. Mom was in New York that day, at Ethan's basketball semi-final.

“Don't you wish you'd been there?” I asked her.

She thought about it honestly. That's one thing I love about Mom. She always thinks about it honestly.

“A little,” she said. “But Ethan scored eleven points. I wouldn't have missed that for any bridge in the world.”

That night, I lay in bed in my old room, under Grandma's quilt, and thought about Brittany standing in the hallway, saying It's my house.

She'd been so sure.

She never once asked whose name was on the paper. She never once asked who'd built the cabinets or played the piano. She just walked in and decided it was hers.