There were also a few trophies: a pair of small ones that Don had won in Scrabble tournaments, and the big one Sarah had been given by the International Astronomical Union. He couldn’t remember the wording on that one, so he walked over, taking small steps, and had a look:

FOR SARAH HALIFAX WHO FIGURED IT OUT 1 MARCH 2010

He nodded, remembering how proud he’d been that day, even if her fame had briefly turned their lives upside down.

A magphotic flatscreen was mounted above the mantel, and when they weren’t watching anything it displayed the time in boxy red numerals a foot high, big enough that Sarah could see them from across the room; as she’d often quipped, it was a good thing that she hadn’t been an optical astronomer. It was now 3:17 in the afternoon. As Don watched, the remaining segments in the rightmost digit lit up; 3:18. The party was supposed to have begun at 3:00, but no one was here yet, and Sarah was still upstairs getting ready.

Don made a mental vow to try to not be short with the grand-children. He never meant to snap at them, but somehow, he always did; there was a constant background level of pain at his age, and it frayed his temper.

He heard the front door opening. The house knew the kids’ biometrics, and they always let themselves in without ringing the bell. The living room had a short staircase at one end that led down to the entry way and a taller one at the other going up to the bedrooms. Don walked over to the base of the one going up. "Sarah!" he called. "They’re here!"

He then made his way to the other end of the room, each foot-fall punctuated by a tiny jab of pain. No one had come up yet — this was Toronto in February, and, global warming be damned, there were still boots and jackets to be removed. Before he reached the top of the stairs, he’d sorted out the melee of voices; it was Carl’s crew.