Not that Gillian’s been willing to let me see who she actually is. My daughter isn’t dead. She just refuses to let me be a part of her life.

“Well, it’s really good to see you,” said Cassandra as she let me go.

I settled back in my seat. “Good to see you, t—”

My statement was cut short as Andrew slammed into me from the side and flung his arms around my neck. “Auntie Birdie!”

Cassandra laughed. “Aren’t you glad I outgrew that?”

“You have no idea,” I said, and ruffled Andrew’s hair. “How’s our birthday boy?”

“I’m four!” he said, showing me the appropriate number of grimy fingers. Towheaded, freckled, and filthy: all the ingredients needed for “ridiculously cute.” Children shouldn’t be allowed to be that adorable. There ought to be a law. “We’re having a party!”

“I noticed.”

Cassandra groaned, muttering, “People in Oregon noticed.”

“We’re gonna have cake, and ice cream, and presents, and—”

A rising shriek was coming from the direction of the swings. I shifted Andrew to my lap as I looked up. Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Incoming.”

“Aunt Birdeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” Karen raced toward us. I braced for impact. At eleven, Karen never seemed to be able to make up her mind about whether or not she was too grown-up to tackle me. I got off lucky this time; she skidded to a halt and declared, “You came!”

“I did,” I agreed. “You look like you’ve been wallowing in the mud.”

She looked down at herself. She was coated with filth from the waist down, and muck caked her hair. “Wow. You’re right.”

“So what have you been doing?”

Gleefully, she crowed, “Wallowing in the mud!”

I sighed. “Right.” Andrew was snuggling into my lap, getting dirt all over my jeans. I thought about moving him and decided not to bother. It was his birthday. He could get me dirty if he wanted to. “What’s up?”