• • •

The one class Gray and I have on a Wednesday morning alternates each week and today we're free until our four o'clock lecture, which means an extra half-day at home in the middle of the week. It's not a ton, but it's such a relief to wake up and realize I don't have to be in the car in thirty minutes.

I want to have a lie-in but that's impossible now that my body's wired to this routine. I've never been one to sleep in late, after four years of high school kicking my butt with seven o'clock starts and helping my parents in the store on weekends. Now it's the college commute that gets me up, and I'm just glad I don't have any classes that start at nine.

I wake up at seven and despite my best efforts, I can only sleep in until eight before my brain snaps awake again and I'm dragged from the comfort of my bed ten minutes later by the smell of cooking. Mom's making breakfast and in addition to the usual aromas of toast and coffee, I smell bacon.

When I stumble down to the kitchen in my pyjamas and a sports bra – it's too uncomfortable to be loose – my stomach rumbles at the sight of her cracking eggs into a pan and flipping sizzling rashers. It may be simple but Dad was always the cook. Mom rarely made more than a sandwich. We lived off toast and cereal for the first few months, but she's stepping up her game.

"Morning, honey!" She pours me a glass of orange juice and when the coffee machine lets out a gurgle to let her know it's out of water and the pot is full, she pours herself a coffee. Not even a drop of milk or sugar. I can't stand the taste even when it's blitzed beyond recognition with creamer and sweetener, but she takes it black.

"Morning," I say, stifling a yawn.

Mom gives me a hug and kisses my cheek and I catch a waft of her perfume. The second the scent hits my nostrils, I'm thrown to a thousand different moments in time as though a bomb has gone off in my soul and shattered my memories. Mom's worn the same perfume all her life, but I haven't smelled it in months.

It's almost enough to bring a tear to my eye. I'm struck by a strange sense of homesickness that rocks my body like a tidal wave, even standing right there next to Mom, and it takes a moment to realize it's nostalgia.

"Are you alright, honey?" she asks when she pulls away and sees my expression.

"Yeah, yeah. Just tired," I say as I drop into a seat at the table. We're not used to having so much more space than our apartment and while there's a dining room next door, we haven't used it yet. Everything happens around the slightly rickety table we found at a Goodwill the next town over.

"This'll perk you up." She gestures to the full breakfast she's putting together, even with a selection of cheese in the middle of the table from the deli in town. While I'm off in South Lakes all day, she's building relationships with the locals. Though she's never been one to have friends, she's a pro networker.

"What's all this for?"

"Well, I know you don't have class until later and I don't have work until noon, so I thought we could get the day off to a good start," she says, dropping a few pieces of bread into the toaster. "I don't want to waste the morning when I see so little of you, bogárkám."

When she turns around, she brushes her hair off her face and gives me a sunny smile, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. For a brief moment I can see the agony that laces her irises. There's nothing physical about her pain, which only makes it worse.

I wish there was something I could do to help. I wish there was anything I could do, except be here. And I'm not even here much. I don't know what to say; I don't know how she's coping; I don't know if my feelings relate when I lost my dad but she lost her husband. I don't know what the difference means or what it feels like, but I know how to hug her.

Mom's made out of angles. She's tall and slim, her wardrobe a number line of fours and sixes, and she doesn't look like the kind of person who'd be comfortable to embrace but there's nothing better than hugging her. Her whole body seems to soften when I wrap my arms around her, as though she's padded with love. She holds me tightly and buries her face in my hair, which better resembles a bird's nest right now, and she rubs my back.

She always used to do that when I got upset. I would shut myself away and lie on my front, crying into a pillow. Every time, even if we'd been fighting moments before, Mom would come in and sit down without a word and she'd rub my back like that. It almost always made me cry more, as though my emotions were a toxin and her touch sucked out the poison.

That hasn't happened for over a year now. Not because I don't get upset, but because Mom cries more than I do.

She only pulls away when oil spits behind her and she has to turn her attention to the pan. With her back to me, she asks, "How about we go to Cleveland this weekend?"

There's a degree of uncertainty in her voice – I've come to expect that recently – and I know where it's coming from. She hates making me drive but if she has to go anywhere further than a mile from home, I have to take her. No matter how often I tell her that I'd drive her to the moon if I could, she always sounds guilty when she asks me for a lift, like it's her fault.

"Really?" I think about it for a moment. Despite living here for three months, we've yet to visit Cleveland. Each time I've seen Kris so far, only a modest handful with my schedule, he's the one who has traveled.

"Maybe. Only if you're up for it, honey," she adds. She knows I hate surprises. It wasn't until I was fourteen that she understood that. I didn't even really understand it, to be honest. I just knew that surprises sent me into a blind panic like a bird trying to get out of a closed window.

I hated myself for reacting so badly to something that was supposed to be good, but I couldn't relax enough to enjoy something I hadn't known to expect.

Learning that I'm autistic gave me a whole new language to understand myself. A light flicked on. I know Mom wishes she had known earlier but I never fitted neatly into the mold of what she thought autism was supposed to look like from what she'd seen on TV. She had no idea. She and Dad just thought I was a bit different.

I am, I guess, but now I have a better grasp on my brain's wiring. Hearing that one word from our family doctor gave me wings. I'm still learning how to use them, but it's better than lying on the ground.

"Storie?" Mom waves her hand in front of my face. "You look a little spacey, honey."

"Just thinking," I say. I'm almost always just thinking, my focus slipping when it can't get purchase on one thought and jumps to the next.

"We don't have to do Cleveland," she says, but she sounds even more uncertain now. "I just thought it would be nice to see Krisztián on Saturday."

"We should," I say, and I realize I have to tell her about the party. I've been mulling it over for a couple of days but I forgot to mention it.

She's more enthusiastic than I thought she would be. Maybe because I'm stepping out of my box; maybe she's relieved that Gray's going to be there, or that I'm getting more involved in college life. Either way, she hugs me and I agree to take it easy at the party so we can drive to Cleveland.

It's only when the conversation drifts away from the day trip that I glance at the calendar on the kitchen wall. A heart fills September second, another missed anniversary. Most of the boxes are empty, but not this Saturday. The writing is small, but I can make it out from a couple of meters away.

LEV. 2 years.

It strikes me like a stampede, bruising my already battered body. I never forgot the date and I doubt I ever will, but somehow, in the midst of moving on, I didn't connect it to a day. I didn't realize it's Saturday. Three days away. The eighth of September is carved into my brain, a red-hot poker branding my soul with the date.

Two years since Mom and I left the store before closing and Dad said he'd be home for dinner. Two years since his seat at the table was empty. Two years since he said see you later! and we never did. I hope those were his last words. I can't bear the thought that someone else heard my dad's final words. Or worse, that no-one did.

Mom catches me staring at the calendar, my mouth agape. She follows my line of vision and her gaze slowly returns to me. Neither of us know what to say.

"I won't go to the party," I blurt out at last.

"Yes, you will." Her voice is soft and certain and I catch a glimpse of old Mom. "You go to the party and when you get home, we will go to Cleveland, and we will be with Kris."

Kris was only four when my parents met. It's easy to forget when he moved out so long ago, but Dad raised him before he raised me. Kris is hurting too.

• • •

As if they smell the food, Tad and Gray appear at the back door right as the bacon's reached the perfect point of crispness. This has become our routine since Mom started working at A Page with a View: Tad goes off to work at eight and if Gray's up or we have an early class, he comes over for toast.

Mom looks like she's jumped right out of a sitcom when she opens the back door for our neighbors, a dishcloth in one hand and a spatula in the other.

Gray greets her with a grin and he sits next to me, and Tad follows him in with a plate of what look like thick pancakes sandwiched together with chocolate spread. He gives Mom a one-armed hug and inhales deeply when he sets down whatever it is he's brought.

"Smells amazing, Jen," he says. "I wish I could stay."

"You should," Mom says, her voice bright. "There's plenty of food if you want to stay for a bit of breakfast." She serves up a couple of plates for Gray and me so fast that I don't have time to stand and give her a hand.

Tad checks his watch and grimaces, lips pursed. He lives by a strict schedule dictated by his job, out at eight each morning and back by six, so I'm amazed he's even considering it. Mom has a persuasive smile and he eyes up her perfect bacon and creamy eggs, but he shakes his head.

"I can't," he says. "Another time, maybe. I need to be in the office in an hour and I can't trust the 51 to be clear." He rests his hand on Gray's shoulder. "What time are you guys back today?"

"Nine thirty," I say. Our only class is four to five, immediately followed by the short shift that ends at eight. I'm a little apprehensive about going back to work after Friday but it's only three hours and Georgie spoke to the manager about better CCTV inside the store.

On late days like today, Grey and I either grab something to eat on campus before we leave or we scavenge for leftovers when we get home. Mom doesn't like to eat after seven. I miss that catch-up time, recounting our days over a home-cooked meal.

"Too cool to hang out with your parents?" Tad jokes. "I should go." He turns to Mom. "See you for dinner?"

Mom smiles and nods. "I'll be here," she says.

That's another new routine. Sometimes the four of us eat dinner together; sometimes we stick to our own families. But when I have a late shift and night falls before Gray and I get back, Mom and Tad eat together. Sometimes she'll try her hand at one of her parents' Hungarian recipes; sometimes he'll cook her a Japanese meal; sometimes they get take-out. There are almost always leftovers for Gray and me, and Tad only leaves once I'm home.

Mom can't stand to be alone: she never has been.

Tad leaves with a wave and no explanation for the weird pancake things he brought over. They're staring at me and I stare right back as though one will come to life and explain itself. Gray takes one and puts it on my plate and passes one to Mom too.

"You have to try it."

"What is it?" Mom asks. "Did your dad make them?"

"Yup. It's dorayaki," Gray says. "Dad's specialty. Well, his mom's specialty. They're basically fat honey pancakes and the filling is koshian. It's, like, a paste made out of azuki beans and sugar."

I can't help but pull a face and Gray laughs at my expression of poorly-concealed confusion and mild disgust. I can't imagine a recipe in which any kind of bean tastes good with a pancake.

"It's sweet," he says. "I promise. It won't bite. It's a delicacy."

Mom cuts a piece first and I watch as she eats it, her face morphing from contemplation to delight. "Oh my goodness, this is divine," she says, her face suddenly animated, and her enthusiasm is all I need to give it a go too.

She's not wrong. Tad's amazing in the kitchen, whipping up anything from his parents' Japanese recipes to his own concoctions, and the dorayaki is perfection. The pancakes taste more like a light, moist sponge and the bean paste is a burst of rich sweetness, a hit of pure frosting.

"Holy crap. That's amazing."

Gray gives me a smug grin. "Told you so."

• • •

With nearly three hours before we need to set off for class, Gray heads home after breakfast when I tell him that Mom and I are going to spend some time together. I miss working alongside her, telling stories back and forth as we stacked shelves and had fun with the books; I miss her constant jokes, poking fun at the language she had to learn from scratch.

Now she's fragile. It hangs heavy in the air around her. She can paint on a smile and spritz perfume on her aura and stand as tall as she can, but she's only fooling everyone but us. I can see it. She can feel it.

We wander side by side into town. She walks with her arms crossed like she's trying to hold herself together, as though each step might be the last before she crumbles. We live on high alert, though we might as well do the opposite. The worst things in life are the things that come with no warning.

Mom's quiet the whole way. Breakfast Mom was a persona, though I don't know who she was trying to convince. Not me, else she'd be grinning now and telling me about work or sharing the bits of gossip she hears while she's at behind the counter. Maybe it's for her, just a snapshot of normality each day. It must be draining.

"Mom?"

She meets my eye and sees the concern marbled into my irises. "Sorry, honey. I was just thinking," she says. Then she nods her head at the fifties-style diner at the far end of town. "Let's get a milkshake."

When we sit down with a couple of thick shakes and hardly a word for a couple of minutes, the silence at the table isn't because we have nothing to say to each other, but because there's too much. Sometimes I wish I could give her a porthole into my mind, to let her read the thoughts I don't know how to share.

She's watching everyone around us. Mom's an expert people watcher. She creates lives for everyone we see, weaving fabrications that build over time: there are a whole host of characters in Queens who have ongoing tales she created for them. Since we've been here, I haven't heard one of her inventions but when I see that flicker of a smile, a glimmer of life in her eyes, I know one's coming.

One hand around her glass, lips pursed around her straw. The slightest tilt of her head. I twist in my seat to see a younger-than-middle-aged man in a suit. He's out of place in this diner, in this town.

"His map lied to him," Mom says, her eyes fixed on the man who is staring at his phone. "He wanted five oak trees and he's disappointed by the missing limb." She holds out her hand to me and tucks her thumb against her palm. "Five Oaks with only four trees is a hand without a thumb."

I love the way her mind works. Even after all these years, my mom can keep me hooked with the simplest words, and I don't want it to end as she narrates this stranger's life. If I fill my lungs and close my eyes and listen to the lightness of her voice, I can pretend we're in Sunnyside.

When the man lifts his phone to his ear, Mom smiles. A genuine smile. She's in her element. She folds her arms on the table and leans forwards, sharing her secret with me.

"He's calling the mayor," she says. "He wants to complain about the false advertising." With a quiet laugh, she wiggles her fingers and her eyebrows and in her best impression of the man we refuse to call our President, she says, "Fake news! Where is the fifth tree? The sign is fake; the town is fake, it's all fake, believe me. I'm going to expose you. This is going to be huge."

It's hard not to make a scene when I'm trying my best not to burst out laughing. Mom's impressions are crazy good, helped by the faces she pulls, and I'm so relieved to see this version of her that I let out a guffaw halfway through a mouthful of milkshake. It splatters the table and Mom loses it too, her shoulders shaking as I madly mop up the spillage and she tries not to draw any more attention to her silent hysteria.

The man gives us a look. He doesn't look impressed. It only makes us laugh harder, trying to hold ourselves together and not make more of a mess, and my side is cramping up from the effort of holding back my howling laughter.

It's been so long that we had a moment like this that it feels even bigger, even funnier, and I stop caring that people are staring. I don't care that my hands are covered in milkshake once I've used up both of the pathetically thin napkins from the dispenser on the table, a sodden strawberry heap.

The unimpressed man gets up to leave. His cell rings again and he answers it as he passes. As soon as he introduces himself as Don, I'm gone. Mom has totally lost it. I can't remember the last time she let go like this.

Tears are streaking down Mom's cheeks, her eyes as bright as ever, and each time I look at her face, I can't help but laugh again. She can set me off with the slightest expression, a twitch of her eyebrow in the direction of some unsuspecting soul. It's been too long since I laughed like this and my diaphragm's out of practice, but I don't care that it hurts.

Things have been getting slowly better since we got here, but this is the closest I've felt to the life I used to know. This is the most I've seen of the mom I grew up with: fun and funny; unafraid to make a fool of herself. She's still laughing when she tries to take a sip of her milkshake, and she realizes her mistake when it comes out of her nose.

Everyone's staring. There aren't many people here but they're all silent, enrapt by the chaos at our table. They're trying to figure out what's so hilarious but even if I could explain, it wouldn't make any sense. It isn't even that funny. It's just Mom.

This is what I needed. This is all I've needed since we've been here: a moment of pure normality. Of our normality, anyway.

• • •