MY DAD AND I moved in all our things in just under two hours. We were fast because we’d already put a lot of stuff into a storage locker last week. I wasn’t very happy about this, but Dad reminded me that Caroline already has a house full of furniture, and we can’t have two of everything. This makes a lot of sense on a practical level, and Dad and I are both very practical. But it is an interesting biological conundrum when one organ—in this case, my brain—tells me one thing, and another organ—in this case, my heart—tells me another.

So I cannot tell a lie: it didn’t feel good, filling up that locker with the things that represented our entire life with Mom. Like the Formica kitchen table with gold sparkles where the three of us sat for most of our meals. Or the couch with the red-and-yellow flowers where Mom lay when she had bad days, trying to knit if she had the energy. Or the coffee table with circular stains all over it because Mom didn’t believe in coasters. I got a little choked up when Dad closed the door, even though he promised me we could visit anytime we want.

I cheered myself up with the thought that we still had a van full of belongings. Some of it was stuff Dad and I had agreed on, like the Mother and Child painting my mom had done in one of her art classes. And Dad also let me pick three things just for me. I chose (1) the afghan blankets she knitted, one for my room and one for the back of our couch, (2) the big, overstuffed green-and-purple chair where she’d read me all the Harry Potter books, and (3) her collection of ceramic figurines.

Caroline was outside to greet us when we pulled up. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt, and her long red hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She is very pretty and also very nice. “Welcome!” she said, and she gave me a big hug and a kiss, even before she hugged and kissed my dad. “We’re so happy you’re here.”

Because she had used the word we, I asked, “Where’s Ashley?”

Caroline hesitated. “She’s in her room. She has a lot of studying to do.” I had heard from my dad that Ashley doesn’t do well in school, so this made sense.

“All right, everyone, time for some heavy lifting,” Dad said. He posed like a bodybuilder and grunted, which made Caroline laugh.

The three of us unloaded the van. I brought Schrödinger up to my new room, which used to be the guest bedroom. It’s big but bland; the walls are beige, whereas at home—I mean, the place where I used to live until today—Mom and I had painted my walls bright blue. I let Schrödinger out of his carry cage and put him into the en suite bathroom so he wouldn’t escape while we carried everything in, or pee on the carpet.

I confess it gave me quite a thrill to realize I would have my own bathroom. At home—I mean, the place where I used to live until today—we only had one bathroom. This house has five! One for Caroline and Dad, one for Ashley, one for me, one on the main floor that’s just a toilet and a sink, and another full one in the basement! Every single human member of this household could go at the same time and there would still be a bathroom left over.

When I closed the door behind Schrödinger, I spotted an enormous box of Purdy’s Chocolates perched on the window ledge. Purdy’s are the best. There was a note attached that said, We are so happy that you are joining our family. Love, Caroline and Ashley. I got a little choked up.

I ate six chocolates before leaving my new room. On the way to the stairs, I passed Ashley’s room, which is at the other end of the hall. Her door was closed. I thought about knocking to thank her for the chocolates, and maybe even offer her one, but I wasn’t sure if I should interrupt her studying. So I didn’t.

—

THE ANDERSON HOUSE IS very different from the Inkster house, and not just because it has so many toilets. First of all, it is much more modern. Our house—I mean, the house where I lived until today—was old. It was built in the 1940s, and it was a bungalow, and the rooms were small and the floors creaked. This house is very big and very clean and very clutter-free. I would call their style minimalist, whereas our house was maximalist. We had stuff everywhere! There were books stacked on tables and on the floor, and at least one of my school projects was always spread out on the dining room table. We must have had about twenty houseplants. Paintings and family photos covered the walls. Mom’s ceramic figurines lined the mantel over the fireplace and every windowsill on the main floor. Plus there was her knitting, her drawing pencils, her notepads, her long-forgotten half-full mugs of tea, her magazines, Dad’s newspapers and reading glasses, his dirty socks and mine, plus my chemistry set and comics.

So I figure we’re doing them a favor, adding some of our stuff to the mix; it will help make their house look more lived-in. For example, we placed the big green-and-purple armchair between their slender brown leather couch and two matching brown leather club chairs in the family room. It was a tight squeeze, but it livened up the space immediately, if I do say so myself. I threw one of my mom’s afghans on the back of their couch, which added a much-needed splash of color. And I see at least five good spots to hang Mom’s painting, and plenty of places to display her ceramic figurines.

Once, when I was out by the van, I caught a glimpse of Ashley. She was standing at her bedroom window, gazing down at us. I waved. She didn’t wave back.

Maybe she isn’t just hard of hearing. Maybe she’s hard of seeing, too.