If anyone has any doubt whether my mom counts as one of the kindest people alive, they only need to look at the front porch of our house. She decorates it for every holiday with a themed tablecloth and little ceramic animals. And that’s great and all. It’s adorable. But my mom also keeps a wicker hamper on our porch. She fills it with ice-cold water, protein bars, and fresh fruit. She leaves bottles of sunscreen in the basket and even masks and sunglasses during wildfire season. There’s a whiteboard there where she writes a different thank-you message each week.

To be fair, we get a lot of deliveries. Lately, there’s an occasional wedding present. For the most part, though, the packages are coming for me.

Inside the house, I find my mom in the kitchen, sorting through the day’s deliveries. She’s designated the side counter as the donation area and puts the few keepers on the kitchen table. Beneath the table is the laundry basket where she places those items that she thinks I should feature in my videos—the clothes or sneakers, accessories or beauty products. Today there’s a giant beanbag spilling out of the laundry basket. It’s beige velvet with bulging plastic eyes.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“It’s a pug,” my mom replies, like that explains everything.

“Okay, but it’s giant.”

“It’s a beanbag chair. Don’t you think it’s adorable?”

The pug chair looks like it’s being asphyxiated. It’s got a crazed look. “Yes?” I ask her.

“I thought it was very sweet. And it must have cost a fortune just to ship.” I stand there and wait. I know my mom will eventually arrive at an explanation. “I know you probably won’t feature it in a video.”

“Mom, most of my videos are dance videos. Right?” She doesn’t respond. “That’s a chair.”

“Maybe you could sit in it and talk about dance a little bit?” She sighs then and throws up her hands in resignation.

Not for the first time, I wonder what people are thinking when they send me some of the items they do. For one thing, it’s not easy to find my address. We’re not fully locked down or anything but it’s not like it’s prominently displayed on my channel. People or companies have to make an effort just to track down the mailing address.

I do feature some items; at least one video a week sees me wearing an item received from my viewership. That’s more than most channels do. Mom and I have met influencers who totally outsource their mail. We respond to almost everyone. Unless there’s some creep factor involved, Mom insists that I write a thank-you note to everyone who sends me a gift in the mail.

As I write my latest round of thank-yous, I realize this is a good moment to bring up what Delancey said yesterday.

“Hey,” I say, “was the idea of us all doing a dance at your wedding off base?”

Mom looks surprised by the question, which is a good sign. She says, “I love the idea of a dance at the wedding. The whole point of a wedding is the dancing.”

“But maybe the point is for you and Bryan to dance? Maybe it’s not the best time for a Shea Davison number. You know?”

“I don’t know. Where is this coming from?” Mom asks. I don’t say anything. I picture Delancey staring me down, folding their arms in the corner of the studio. “Shea, the wedding isn’t just about Bryan and me. Weddings are about families. I think it’s lovely that you’ll be sharing your talents. Had you’d kept up with flute lessons, I would have expected a flute solo. But my daughter happens to be one of the best-known dancers on the planet. I’m honored that you’ll dance at the wedding.”

“But maybe we don’t need to broadcast it. If you and Bryan want your privacy, we don’t have to post a video.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. People love weddings.”

Mom stands up and starts fussing with the packages in the donation pile. “You’ve got an extremely loyal viewership, Shea. But that’s not accidental. I think you’re finally starting to realize what a great dancer you are, and I’m glad for that. But do you know what you are even better at?” My mom slaps the kitchen counter. “Marketing. Brand building. You are ahead of your time. Lots of people can dance in front of a carefully balanced phone. You’ve reached people. You’ve opened up your life and built relationships. Your viewers relate to you. That’s not an accident. And it’s not easy. Don’t let anyone minimize that.”

She doesn’t say Delancey. But my mom looks at me and holds eye contact and I know we’re both thinking: Delancey.

“Thanks, Mom.” I sigh.

“Of course.” She nods magnanimously. “Besides, I got a discount on the flowers because I mentioned they’d appear in the background of the video.” We cackle then, standing in a kitchen packed with freebies. Maybe we are kind people. But maybe we are also pretty much living down to Delancey’s vision of us.

Mom says gently, “We’re all going to have some adjustments to make. We knew this. Bryan and I were so focused on the fact that you and Delancey were such good friends, maybe we haven’t taken enough care with this transition. But it’s completely reasonable for you both to have fears and misgivings about the ways our families are about to change. Try not to take it personally. I won’t. Neither will Bryan.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t thank me. Thank the person who sent you the pug chair.” She nods at the stack of cards beside me. “As a matter of fact, thank that person right now.”

When I’m done, I nurse my cramped writing hand in my own room. I’ve got a lab to finish and a full chapter of Global Politics to read. Nothing holds my attention beside my phone, though. I keep waiting for a text from Delancey, but they’ve gone quiet, even on the dance team group chat.

I don’t sign in to TikTok. When I start yawning, I force myself up into the wide space of my bedroom to dance—not really because I need the practice but because I need to wake up.

I’m practicing spins when I notice the calendar. The one on my wall is just like my mom’s wedding planning system downstairs. But instead of her bridezilla to-do list, mine plans my channel’s future: contest dates, product placements, new routine debuts. The writing for this coming Friday doesn’t match the rest of my careful printing.

I know they probably wrote it weeks ago. Maybe tonight they’re not quite in the mood to joke, but it still makes me laugh. They must have snuck it onto the board when I wasn’t looking. The entry for Friday reads normal adolescent fun.

I’m still laughing even as I hit call. “I need assistance with something on my calendar.”

“Yeah?” Delancey replies grudgingly. We have some ground to cover still. “It’s okay if you have plans.”

“This Friday? So sorry. I have some kind of family thing going on.”

“Gosh, that sucks for your family.” I can hear the smile in their voice.

“What counts as ‘normal adolescent fun’?”

“You don’t even know anymore, do you?” There’s no right way to answer so I wait for Delancey to tell me.

I don’t have to wait long. Their excitement spills past this afternoon’s resentment. It overcomes tonight’s distance. “Friday night,” they announce triumphantly, “we are going to the state fair.”