When Ameena started at Microsoft, her goal was to gain enough experience to ultimately recruit for an organization that does good, ideally for the environment. She was the president and founder of our high school’s Compost Club. By default, I was the vice president. She’s a slow-fashion aficionado who buys all her clothes at thrift shops and rummage sales, and she and TJ have an impressive herb garden on their apartment balcony.

“Are you serious? That’s incredible!” I say, reaching for a rib the server places in the center of the table. “They have a Seattle office?”

Her expression falters. “Well, no,” she says. “They’re in Virginia. I mean, I doubt I’ll get the job.”

“Don’t reject yourself before you’ve even interviewed,” Phil says. “Do you know how many people audition for the symphony? The odds were never in our favor, either, although I still claim it’s nonsense Leanna had to audition three times.”

My mother squeezes his arm, but she beams at the compliment.

“Virginia is . . . far,” I say intelligently.

“Let’s just ignore the Virginia part for now.” Ameena brushes a stray thread from the vintage charcoal blazer we fought over at an estate sale last month. “I’m really not going to get it, though. I’m the youngest recruiter on my team. They’re probably going to want someone with more experience.”

“I miss being the youngest,” I say, taking to heart Ameena’s “let’s just ignore the Virginia part” suggestion. Virginia isn’t something I can even wrap my mind around. “It feels like the interns are getting younger and younger every year. And they’re all so earnest and fresh faced. One of them actually told me the other day that he didn’t know what a tape looked like.”

“Like that reporter you’re always going on about?” my mother says. “What’s his name again?”

“Dominic something, right?” Phil says. “I did like that piece he did on arts funding in Seattle compared to other cities.”

“He’s not an intern, he’s Kent’s favorite reporter.” And apparently the new star of Puget Sounds, based on the social media snooping I did after the show. Twitter loved him, which proves Twitter is a hellsite.

“Talk to me when you’re thirty,” Ameena says. We celebrated her thirtieth two months ago, in December, and it’ll be my turn in October. I’m still in denial.

My mother waves a hand. “Please. You’re both still babies.” She says this, but my mother is gorgeous: dark red hair, sharp cheekbones, and a closet full of chic black dresses that would make Audrey Hepburn quietly, beautifully weep. In a symphony of fifty musicians, she steals the show every night.

I tug my hair out of its usual low ponytail and finger comb my long bangs that skim the top of my tortoiseshell glasses. Thick, brown, and coarse: the only adjectives that describe my hair, and all of them are tragic. I thought I’d have learned to style it by now, but some days I fight with a straightener and other days I fight with a curling iron before I resign myself to another ponytail.

It’s only when I examine my mother, searching for the physical similarities between us—spoiler: there are none—that I notice she’s acting strangely. She keeps rubbing at the hollow of her throat, one of her telltale signs of nerves, and when the food arrives, she pushes it around on her plate instead of eating it. She and Phil are usually pretty affectionate. We had a body language expert on the show a while back, and the way she talked about people falling in love described the two of them perfectly. Phil is always resting his hand in the small of her back, and she’ll often cup the side of his face and skim her thumb along his cheek.

There’s none of that tonight.

“How’s the house?” Phil asks, and I respond with a dramatic groan. He holds up his hands and lets out a soft laugh. “Ah, I’m sorry. Didn’t realize it was a sore subject.”

“No, no,” I say, even if it is a bit of a sore subject. “The house is fine, though I wish I’d waited for something smaller.”

“Isn’t it a three bedroom? One bath?”

“Yeah, but. . . .”

For years, Ameena and I shared an apartment in Ballard before she moved in with TJ. Buying a house seemed like the right next step: I was nearly thirty, had saved up enough money, and wasn’t leaving Seattle anytime soon. Working in public radio is like serving on the Supreme Court—most people are there for a very long time. Even if I wanted to be on the air, I wouldn’t be able to find a job at another station. It’s impossible to get a hosting gig without experience, but you can’t get that experience unless you already have some experience under your belt. The joys of job hunting as a millennial.

So because it seemed like the next step in the how-to-adult manual, I bought a house, a Wallingford Craftsman my real estate agent called cozy but more often feels too large for one person. It’s always cold, and six months after picking out the kind of furniture I thought I wanted, it still feels empty. Lonely.

“I guess I just have a lot of work to do on it,” I finish, though I’m unsure what exactly “it” means.

“It was a good financial decision,” Phil says. “Buying a house is always a good investment. And one of my kids would be more than happy to help you out with any painting or repairs.”