On the beige wall behind Kyle was a framed photoprint that belonged to Heather. It was made up of an apparently random pattern of tiny black-and-white squares — a representation of one of the alien radio messages.

Becky had moved out nine months ago, shortly after she’d finished high school. Heather had hoped Becky might stay at home a while — the only other person in the big, empty suburban house now that Mary and Kyle were gone.

At first, Becky came by the house frequently — and according to Kyle, she had seen her father often enough, too. But soon the gaps between visits grew longer and longer — and then she stopped coming altogether.

Kyle apparently had become aware that Heather was looking at him. He lifted his eyes from the datapad and managed a wan smile. “Don’t worry, hon. I’m sure she’ll be here.”

Hon. They hadn’t lived together as husband and wife for eleven months, but the automatic endearments of two decades die hard.

Finally, at a little past eight-thirty, the doorbell rang. Heather and Kyle exchanged glances. Becky’s thumbprint still operated the lock, of course — as, for that matter, did Kyle’s. No one else could possibly be dropping by this late; it had to be Becky. Heather sighed. That Becky didn’t simply let herself in underscored Heather’s fears: her daughter no longer considered this house to be her home.

Heather got up and crossed the living room. She was wearing a dress — hardly her normal at-home attire, but she’d wanted to show Becky that her coming by was a special occasion. And as Heather passed the mirror in the front hall and caught sight of the blue floral print of the dress, she realized that she, too, was acting as Becky was, treating her daughter’s arrival as a visit from someone for whom airs had to be put on.