I went to bed (at nine, which is a normal ten-year-old Greek Cypriot time for going to sleep, not six, which is before babies even go to bed).

I couldn’t sleep. I had to work on Mom. It was the only way. I needed to get her to talk to Aunt Soph again. The wedding was in two weeks, and I was getting panicky. If we didn’t go to Dimitri’s wedding, it would arrive and pass by without them talking, and if that could happen, we could easily go through the rest of our lives without talking. Easters. Christmases. Birthdays. Summer barbecues. Our graduations. Our weddings. Maybe they wouldn’t ever talk again, and the thought of that made me want to faint and collapse, even though I was already lying down.

I had to come up with something.

I reached to the side table for a pen and opened my notebook.

Solutions

1. Tell Mom Aunt Soph is sick?

X. Don’t like lying about sickness (for obvious reasons).

2. Get them to meet accidentally?

X. Mom walked out of the supermarket when she saw Aunt Soph.

3. Tell them about…

X. No way.

I put my pen down. I knew the third option was the only thing that would do it. But Mom said more than once that it wouldn’t make any difference. And anyhow, I was just too scared.

I only had one other idea. It was a little silly, but by that point, anything was worth a try.

I went downstairs. It was nine thirty by now, so Mom said, “Why’re you up? Go to bed.”

“Can’t sleep.”

“So eat something,” she said. Typical Mom. She’s a feeder. She doesn’t only feed us, but she feeds all her friends that come over, Dimitri, and half the people at work. She even feeds the neighbors. Our next-door neighbors said they lost weight when we went on vacation last year because my mom wasn’t taking them food all the time.

“Not hungry,” I said.

“You need to eat,” she said raising her voice. “You’re not eating enough.” Her eyes flashed with food rage. That’s a thing, trust me. At least, it is in Greek homes.

“There’s only one thing I feel like eating,” I said.

“OK. Tell me what it is. I’ll make it for you.”

“Galaktoboureka,” I said casually.

Mom stared at me. That was Aunt Soph’s specialty. Just saying its name was risky. I was worried in case she freaked out, but if she did feel any emotion, she didn’t show it. I waited a second and added, “Can you make me some?”

Mom barely blinked. “Of course. Not now—it’s late. Tomorrow. If my baby wants it, I’ll make it for her.”

“I’m not a baby.”

She put her hands over both my cheeks. “You’ll always be my baby. Even when you’re forty-five and you have six children.”

I rolled my eyes. “Can you stop squashing my face? And I’m not having six children.”

She let go and said, “I’ll find a recipe.”

“Yeah, but not just any old recipe. They have to be exactly the same as…”

Mom stopped and scowled at me.

“…as I’m used to.”

I didn’t say as Aunt Soph’s because I didn’t need to. Aunt Soph made the best galaktoboureka in the entire universe—Mom knew it and I knew it. You’d think Mom would have had the recipe written down somewhere, but she made the dishes she was amazing at and Aunt Soph made the dishes she was amazing at, and we all ate them together. That’s how it always was. Who’d have guessed that one day they wouldn’t be talking and they’d have to make each other’s?

Mom sniffed and got up. She picked up the dishcloth and started wiping the kitchen counter, even though it was clean. All Mom had to do was phone Aunt Soph and get the recipe. Then they’d make up and we’d go over there with pots of food and hug and cry and everything would be fine again. Uncle Dimitri and Christina would have the wedding of the century and we’d get past this and we’d make sure we never let anything come between us again. Not ever.

“I’ll call Biatra,” Mom said. “She’ll have a good recipe.”

OMG. Was she never going to pick up the phone? Call Aunt Soph, I yelled in whale song. Caaaalllll Aaaauuuunnnnttt Sooooooppphhh.

“Her mom’s galaktoboureka is famous,” Mom continued.

Whale song wasn’t working. I had to use my mouth.

“I don’t want Biatra’s mom’s. Why don’t you call—”

Mom stuck her finger in the air. “Don’t even say her name. Not happening.”

My heart fell to my socks.

My idea hadn’t worked.

So I decided to be honest. I have no idea why, after all the problems honesty’s given me. “But you’re sad, Mom,” I said quietly. “I’m worried about you.”

Mom gave me a just-about-to-cry smile. Stretchy-mouthed. Quivery-lipped. Crumple-faced. Wet-eyed.

“I’m fine, Lex,” she said. Her eyes turned gooey like golden syrup. “Pssshh. What a good girl I have,” she said in a voice like a rickety rope bridge. “Heart of gold. You’re an angel sent from heaven.”

And as she pulled me in for a big grabby hug, I thought, Oh, Mom. You wouldn’t say that if you knew.