My mother called at 2:07 a.m. and said, “You can c…

My phone started vibrating across my nightstand at 2:07 in the morning, dragging that insect-buzz sound through the dark like something trapped under glass. I was half asleep, one arm numb under the pillow, my apartment in D.C. still holding the stale heat from the radiator even though it was March.

Outside, somewhere down on the street, a siren yelped once and then faded. I blinked at the screen, saw Mom, and felt that familiar little drop in my stomach. Nobody calls at 2:07 a.m.

to ask how you’re doing. I grabbed the phone fast enough that my charger cord slapped against the lamp. “Mom?”

Her voice came through flat and awake, which was somehow worse than panic.

“Tomorrow night, your brother’s fiancée’s family is coming for dinner. You should be there.”

I sat up, pushing hair out of my face. “What?