After Olivia’s ill-fated graduation party and her subsequent departure for points south, Mark had fallen into a state of severe depression that had lasted months. My mother had been convinced that he would do something to himself. She’d sent him to counseling and had found a doctor to prescribe antidepressants. In the end, it wasn’t the hours of counseling, or the drugs, that had pulled Mark out of his self-made pit, but mathematics. During much of that time he’d retreated to his apartment to write new theorems, which was his idea of self-comfort. When he’d finally created a new one, he’d been so excited that he’d showed one of his math professors, who had helped him get it published in a prestigious math journal. While hiding away in his apartment with math books and his calculator, Mark had missed the first quarter of his junior year of college, but since he was such a genius, most of his professors had let him make up the missed classes with extra assignments. The following fall semester one of his professors had talked him into applying to graduate school. Since then, Mark had thrown himself into the study of math and little else.

The front door led directly into the family room. Atop the hardwood floors, the furnishings were tasteful, but inexpensive, and the only embellishment to the minimalist style was a wall of crosses that my mother had collected in every size, color, and medium, along with a few choice paintings by their favorite local artist.

As I stepped inside, a high-pitched voice exclaimed, “Dia!” and my four-year-old nephew Nicholas catapulted himself into my arms. My nephew was a miniature replica of his father, with dark hair and eyes, and tan, southern Italian skin. Nicholas rambled on about attending kindergarten in the fall and the other kids in his playgroup. Apparently, a little tyke named James was a real pill. When Nicholas first began to talk, he learned quickly in our family that you had to speak loud and fast or risk interruption.