Ziggy and Jenny proceeded into the kitchen with a basket overflowing with ripe summer vegetables. When they presented it on the wooden farm table, it looked like a painting with the early-morning sun glazing the curved surface of the tomatoes. There was a thick bouquet of kale flowing over the side of the basket, so rich in summer’s juice, I imagined I could see blood pulsing inside each stalk.

Ziggy drummed on the kitchen table with fingers spread wide. Jenny bowed and began to decorate herself with vegetables. She threaded scallions through each of her buttonholes, and tied marigold stems into her hair. Then she twisted pea pod vines around Ziggy’s wrists and smeared raspberry juice across his cheeks like war paint.

“Huzzah,” said Ziggy. “Enter the fairies in their veil of vegetable sunshine.”

“That’s my boy,” said Jenny.

She took Ziggy’s hands and swung him around the kitchen, laughing hysterically.

What would it be like to have a mother who decorated herself with vegetables and smeared raspberry war paint on my cheeks?

I tried to imagine Mother dancing me around the kitchen, but I couldn’t. Uncle Toby, yes, but never Mother. When I tried to imagine Mother’s face smiling as wide as Jenny’s, head thrown back, all those teeth showing, all I could imagine was a nightmare.

“I missed you so much,” said Ziggy.

“Oh, Ziggy,” said Jenny. “I missed you too.”

Ziggy and Jenny waltzed around the kitchen.

I was a stranger. I didn’t belong here. I didn’t belong anywhere.

I swayed on my feet, but Nana Jean steadied me.

“Easy there,” said Nana Jean, putting her arm around me. “Honey, it’s time to tell me what’s going on so I can help. Look at you, baby. You’re shaking. I can’t help you unless you tell me. Okay, darling? We’ll have some breakfast together. And then we’re going to try again. That sound okay with you?”

I nodded, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand.

Ziggy and Jenny twirled and dipped and held hands. They kissed each other’s cheeks and laughed and laughed.

I stood with Nana Jean by the kitchen table and swallowed my jealousy.

Ziggy and Jenny jumped on chairs, raised their faces to the ceiling, and howled like wolves.

Nana Jean frowned.

“Ziggy. Jenny. You stop this. How do you think this girl feels watching the two of you carry on like this? June Bug, honey, these two here, they are just really happy to see each other. But all of us are glad that June Bug Jordan is with us here this morning, aren’t we? Makes the reunion even more special. Isn’t that right, Jenny? Ziggy? See? They’re glad you’re with us. Please, let’s think for a moment before we do any more strange things that exclude someone. Let’s remember all the hard times we’ve been through. All of us.”

Nana Jean went to the table and helped them down. When Jenny started to twirl again, Nana Jean clamped one hand on her shoulder.

“Jenny,” she said.

“What?” said Jenny.

“Set the table for breakfast, please. You know where everything is. China plates, please. And Grandma’s silver. June Bug here is making a delicious breakfast, and we need to celebrate being together on this special day. Make some good memories before things get hard again. Now, June, why don’t you come to the stove and help me do the last step? It’ll just take a minute and then we can eat. We’ll feel more settled after we get some food in us. And then you and I have some serious talking to do.”

“What about me, Mama?” said Jenny. “You and me have some talking to do too.”

“Jenny,” said Nana Jean. “If you want to tell me about how I ruined your life, surely it can wait until after breakfast. I’ll listen to you, I promise. I’ll even agree with you. But I think I’ll keep my humor much better with some breakfast inside me first. So, could we wait awhile, please? After breakfast, we can all have a good talk and a good cry. Okay? June Bug first. Then you.”

“Okay,” said Jenny.

“Okay,” I whispered.

Nana Jean put her arm around me and led me back to the stove, where we turned on the burner, melted the butter, and then poured the eggs into the pan. They sizzled and sputtered. Nana Jean held my hand on the wooden spoon and helped me stir up the eggs so they were fluffy and gorgeous.

“Take a breath through your nose,” said Nana Jean. “What kinds of spices does it need?”

I leaned forward and took a long sniff. I almost fainted, it was so wonderful.

Nana Jean brought over some fresh dill and the salt and pepper shakers.

“You season this any way you want, June Bug,” she said.

I sniffed through my nose again. Then I crumbled up some dill and shook in three shakes of salt and three shakes of pepper.

“Perfect,” said Nana Jean.

Ziggy and Jenny got out the silver and the good china and set the table. Matthew scrambled down Ziggy’s leg, up the table, and squirmed his way into the basket of vegetables. He curled up beside the eggplant, chirring faintly before settling into sleep. He tucked his nose beneath his tail and closed his eyes. No one seemed to mind. Especially since he looked so lovely next to the curved black hip of the eggplant.

There is something wonderful about sitting at a kitchen table for breakfast. You find your chair, lower yourself down, pull into the table. Maybe you spread your napkin across your knees, a happy white square. The sun shines differently in the morning. Things are still fresh.

We pulled in our chairs, and Nana Jean came over with the skillet. She heaped eggs onto our plates and then sat down herself. The chair creaked under her weight.

I speared a huge forkful and brought it to my watering mouth, but Nana Jean stopped me with a sharp look.

“We have to say grace,” said Ziggy.

I put my fork down.

“Jenny,” said Nana Jean, “why don’t you say grace? It’s been a long time since you prayed at this table. I think the good Lord will appreciate hearing your voice instead of mine, for a change.”

“Okay,” said Jenny. “But only if you let me do it my own way.”

“Honey,” said Nana Jean, “you do everything in your own way. Why would this be any different?”

Jenny reached her hands out to either side of her. Nana Jean took one and Ziggy took the other. For a moment I was jealous that no one was holding my hands, but then, sure enough, Nana Jean reached out to hold my hand on the left and Ziggy reached out to hold my other hand on the right. We sat that way for a few seconds, just feeling each other’s presence around the table. A few seconds is such a tiny amount of time, but it can feel enormous when you have someone’s skin next to your skin and the smell of eggs on the table steaming in the new morning sun.

“Dear Lord,” said Jenny, “we thank thee for these here scrumptious gifts we are about to receive, these super-duper delicious breakfast eggs that our new friend, June Bug Jordan, from down the street, hath made for us.”

Ziggy smiled at me.

“I think you know June Bug Jordan, Lord. You sure knew her daddy a long time ago when he used to come over here and play with me, on account of me praying so much that he would one day be my husband.

“Does he play music for you up in heaven? Mama used to have an old Hammond organ down in the basement, and he’d come after school to sing hymns to me. You remember that, don’t you, Lord? I’d bring down my blanket and my dolls, and I’d lie right down on the floor to listen. Sometimes I’d get tired and fall asleep, but that’s okay ’cause when you fall asleep listening to hymns, you dream about angels.

“Folks said if he’d ever liked girls at all, we would have made a good-looking couple. Everyone thought so. Bet he would’ve treated me better than drunk old Donny.”

“Jenny,” said Nana Jean, “remember that this is a prayer, please.”

“I’m doing this my own way, Mama. You said I could.”

“We agreed that we would have this conversation after breakfast.”

“This isn’t a conversation, Mama. This is a prayer to the Lord.”

“God help us,” muttered Nana Jean.

“Dear Lord, you know I used to hear Mama and Daddy at night. Sometimes I’d hear her crying. Where were you when that happened, Lord? What about when Daddy went on his last bender and drove his car into that big old tree out front? Can’t say things got better after he left us. But they sure did get quieter.”

“Jenny,” said Nana Jean. “Please. Say ‘Amen,’ and let’s be done with this.”

“I am not done,” said Jenny. “I’m still thanking the Lord for all our gifts. So, as I was saying, thank you, Lord, for taking Daddy when you did. Thank you for sending me Marty. He was a good friend, even if he never did love me.

“We sure were surprised when he came back from that fancy conservatory with June Bug’s mama on his arm. Were you there at their wedding? That weird, somber affair? You know I wished them well, Lord, you know I did, even though everyone could tell that it was not going to end well.”

“Jenny,” said Nana Jean. “This is cruel.”

But it didn’t feel cruel to me. I listened with a hunger for the truth that rivaled my hunger for the eggs that were cooling on my plate, and I reached out for every word, grasping at them, bringing them toward me, tasting them, rolling them in my mouth, devouring them, digesting them, and then reaching out for more.

“Were you at his funeral, Lord? Did you see June Bug and her mama, holding hands up front? They didn’t know I was in the back, praying for them. I was. Because I knew they were gonna miss that man something awful. I knew June Bug lost her daddy and Angela Jordan lost her husband, even if they couldn’t have had much of a romantic love like most husbands and wives are supposed to. I have no idea how many times they did what they needed to do. All I know is somehow this beautiful little June Bug was born. Sometime along the way, Angela and Marty must have learned what I learned with Donny. If you give a person enough wine and turn off enough lights, everything gets easier. Just close your eyes and imagine whoever you want to imagine. That’s what I did when Donny took me home. I just closed my eyes. Pretended he was someone gentle like Marty. Pretended he was singing hymns to me. Velvety and gorgeous for all eternity. Amen.”

“Amen,” said Ziggy.

They stared at each other across the table.

“That was inappropriate on so many levels I don’t know where to begin,” said Nana Jean.

“I am your child, Mama. I learned everything I know from you.”

“You didn’t need to drag these children into it.”

“They’re already in it, Mama. For God’s sakes, it’s their story.”

Ziggy took a bite of eggs and looked into my eyes. “These are wonderful eggs,” he said.

“Thank you,” I muttered.

I ate my eggs in silence. They tasted good.

Ziggy was right. There was just the right amount of pepper and salt. And the eggs were perfect and fluffy. We sat around the table and swallowed the truths Jenny had told in her prayer. I could tell Nana Jean was mad. And I could tell one of the reasons she was mad was because she thought it hurt me to know these things about Daddy. But it didn’t hurt. It was a beautiful prayer. This was the first time in my life I had ever heard anyone tell the truth about who I was and what I came from.

And now I knew another truth too. A daughter can tell her story and the house can stay standing and the floor can stay whole. A daughter can tell the truth and a mother can listen. And so can God. The foundation beneath their feet might shake, but it will not crumble. The floor will not open up to swallow them. Now I knew that a mother and daughter could be angry at each other. They could be furious. They could even hate each other for minutes or even sometimes years. But then they could sit at the kitchen table together on a sunny morning and eat breakfast, and they could swallow the food and feel full.

When breakfast was over, we helped Nana Jean clean up. Ziggy brought the dishes from the table to the counter. Jenny washed them in the sink with warm water and soap. My job was to dry them with a soft blue washcloth, a simple task, but one that I discovered was perfect for me, because I loved wiping away the water to find a clean, round surface shining underneath.

Nana Jean brought the dry dishes to the china cabinet. Every time I handed her a plate or a bowl, she made sure to touch me before taking it, squeezing my arm or petting my hair. Sometimes she just looked at my face, gentle and apologetic.

When the dishes were finished, Nana Jean came up to me and put her arm around my shoulders. She walked me through the kitchen to the living room. The windows were open and there was a breeze blowing through. I wondered if Daddy ever sat in this room with Jenny. I wondered if he loved it the way I loved it just then.

“Are you doing all right?” Nana Jean asked me.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m doing fine.”

Nana Jean smelled like talcum powder, and the skin on her arm was soft as rising bread.

I leaned into her.

“I wanted to apologize for Jenny,” she said.

“You don’t have to apologize,” I said. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” said Nana Jean, her face serious. “Not at all.” She sighed. “It’s not an excuse, what I’m going to tell you, but my Jenny, she dealt with a lot of hard things when she was a little girl. She just doesn’t know what’s right and wrong sometimes. I’m glad you’re not feeling too angry or hurt about what she said. But I tell you, I sure am shaking from it.”

I closed my eyes, leaned my cheek against her shoulder, and took a breath through my nose. Oven biscuits. Blueberry muffins. Popovers.

“Poor child,” said Nana Jean. “You’ve got enough on your mind, without adding my daughter’s revelations to them.”

We sat side by side on the sofa, looking through the tall windows onto Trowbridge Road. Mr. Delmato was mowing his lawn across the street. Mrs. Wright was standing on her steps with a watering can. She was giving her geraniums a drink. The Crowley boys were riding back and forth on their bicycles.

We watched the neighborhood outside the window. The same porches, and the same pretty children ducking in and out, slamming screen doors, moving between the houses in small ragtag tribes. It was the same neighborhood, but somehow it seemed different now.

The wind moved through the living room, stirring the lace curtains like gossamer.

Nana Jean slipped off her shoes and put her feet up on the coffee table.

We sat together in silence.

I think she knew I was going to tell even before I did.

Otherwise she would have made some kind of small talk about the weather or the neighborhood, or urged me into some kind of activity, handing me a pillow or offering me something to eat or drink, giving me something to hold in my hands, but she didn’t do any of these things. She just sat beside me and waited patiently. Her silence was gigantic and extraordinary. It brought the poison up from my blood to the surface, where it burned and begged to be released.

Outside the window, the Crowley boys continued to ride their bicycles back and forth in front of their houses. The mailman came and Mr. Koning went out to get it. They talked at the doorstep. The mailman tipped his hat. Mr. Koning waved. The truck made its way down the street. You would have thought, looking out that window at the way the neighborhood went about its business, that no one else in the world had secrets.

They knew the right things to do and say. They knew when to wave and when to close their doors and go inside to their troubles. But somehow they went on. Sometimes they cracked like Mother did. Sometimes they were not able to bear it. But most of the time they found some way to live. Even Jenny and Nana Jean. Even with all that hurt inside.

I took a very deep breath. “Nana Jean,” I said.

“Yes, baby,” she said, reaching over to squeeze my hand.

“I want Ziggy and Jenny to be here when I tell.”

“Okay,” said Nana Jean. “I’ll get them.”

She heaved herself from the couch and shuffled back into the kitchen. I could hear her whispering to them, and then, slowly, she brought Ziggy and Jenny in from the kitchen.

Jenny sat in the old rocking chair and leaned her head back. Ziggy sat at my feet.

He put Matthew on my lap.

Nana Jean sat next to me and put her arm around me.

No one said anything. They waited for me to find my courage.

“I have something I want to tell all of you,” I said, finally.