If I had to pick out my least trying household chore, I'd go for laundry. I don't like the noise from the vacuum, I'm no Julia Child but I'm a decent cook, and scrubbing the bathroom, no matter how small it is, is tiresome. But the smell of detergent, fabric softener and freshly laundered clothes is a little satisfying. I actually enjoy it. Who doesn't appreciate clean clothes?

My morning kicks off with two large batches of laundry, a stint at vacuuming the entire apartment, placing fresh sheets on the beds and cleaning the bathroom. Living with males is bound to leave a home disorderly – sometimes disgusting – and no matter how many times I've lost my head over unhang towels, deformed toothpaste tubes, and left-out crumbs and drippings, I will be certain to find a mess that will send me into a fairly grumbling mood.

With the break from school, I have more time to keep an eye on the shambles in my house. A summer break also means that I need to find another job to bring in some extra money. I already sent in my application, and I'm still waiting to hear from the teen's academic summer camp program.

Before leaving, I stick a note on the television screen about the Saran-wrapped bowls I left in the fridge. Should Nathan and Jamie get home earlier than me, they're bound to see a note on the TV than on the fridge.

I used the bus frequently when I was in high school. I'd catch rides from Lucas and Peyton sometimes, and when we started dating, Nathan was insistent on driving me to school and picking me up from work to drive me home. But I still find some pleasantness in being anonymous in a bus full of people.

While waiting for the bus, I begin to feel uneasy. As I'm not the only one on the bench, I casually look to all sides instead of whipping my head around like I'm crazy. Cars, businesses, people, and nothing seems odd. If there's something making my spine crawl and the back of my neck prickle, I can't see it.

I grapple to understand what I'm sensing and what I'm not seeing until the bus pulls up. It makes me nervous that I might be paranoid for no reason.

Surprisingly, I return home earlier. I'm laid out on the couch with my eyes closed, bare feet propped up on the armrest, drifting off, when I hear the door open and close.

"Guess who?"

"A monkey?"

He giggles. "Guess!"

"The cutest monkey?"

He giggles again and crawls up on my stomach. "Hi, Mama."

"Hi, sweetie. How was school?"

"I painted with my hands on the wall."

He shows me his palms, one faded blue and the other faded green. His pants have paint droplets.

I sit upright and settle him on my lap, pouring three kisses on his forehead. "When can I see the wall?"

"Miss Maria said that after we finish, our parents can see everything we did. Everything. And Daddy came today and he put his hand on the wall. It was really big, Mama, like, this big."

"It was gigantic in comparison to those chipolata fingerprints," Nathan says, sinking onto the couch in that cautious, lithe manner he's acquired.

"That's because you're a Sasquatch in comparison to the littles. How was your day?"

I lose Jamie when he moves to Nathan's lap and grabs for the remote.

"I got a job."

Another second, and I get what he's said. He's been searching for a while, but most of the jobs required a lot of physical exertion like lifting and manual handling, or prolonged standing for hours on end.

I don't know whether I'm excited or apprehensive about this new job. "You did? That's so great! Where?"

"Car dealership. Someone quit and I got the job. Pays decently, too."

I gape in wondrous surprise when he tells me how much it is, and he grins, "To drive luxury cars, wipe them down, and do some paperwork."

A thought occurs to me. "Is it as strenuous as the job you had at Keith's garage?"

He sometimes worked with heavy machinery, and it freaked me out so much when he dropped a rim on his foot that I got him durable work boots with my next paycheck; boots that were sturdy and solid enough to shield him from such accidents, or at least minimize the impact. They were pricey, but I wasn't going to negotiate between missing toes and a few extra dollars.

"Not even close."

"When do you start?"

"Tomorrow. A nine to five that's practice for my future job."

"Basketball nine to five?"

He chuckles. "I won't be playing basketball when I'm forty-five, Hales. That's why I took the sports management minor. This new job will train me for paper pushing."

Reclining back, he rubs his temple, exhaling loudly. "I'm wiped out."

I reach over and lay a hand over his shoulder like it'll do the trick to cure him of his fatigue. It worries me that this exhaustion has not eased up.

"How are the muscles?"

"A little stiff," he groans.

"You want a massage later?"

His head rolls over the back of the couch as he faces me, a smile playing with the edges of his mouth. "That'd be great."

After a quiet moment, his gaze slides to somewhere behind me. "Something else happened today."

I take whatever he's about to tell me seriously when his smile soon disappears. "What's going on?"

"He called."

Immediately, I look at Jamie, but he's too engrossed in his cartoon to be listening to us. But to be on the safe side, I don't pose, "Who, Dan?" at Nathan.

"What'd he say?"

"He wants to meet us."

I look at Jamie again, my palm delicately sweeping along his downy hair. Flashbacks of him getting tested for HCM at the age of two rattle through my mind, and I can still feel the relief when we were given news that he was a healthy little boy.

"All of us or the two of us?"

"All of us."

I nod as though I'm processing each word. "So we're actually doing this?"

He stares at me for a second, brow creased. "He says that he's different, so okay, I'll bite."

"Did you explicitly say yes or did you say that you'd think about it?" I pose.

"I told him that I'd talk to you about it."

I lean my head closer so that I can talk more quietly. "I know you want to meet with him, and I'm not going to get in the way."

He remains silent for a minute, then I notice that his jaw has started to flex. Many times in the past, Dan has hurled accusations at him of inadequacy, made unsatisfactory remarks, and left him feeling defensive and vulnerable. On that principle, Dan is nowhere in my top-ten list of an idyllic guest for a Last Supper. It would be unbearable to see that cycle repeated, and that scares the hell out of me.

"It's the last thing I feel like dealing with but I'm giving it real thought," he mutters.

I'm not going to advise him against it, because even if he's not admitting it to himself, he wants to see just how different Dan claims to be. I am, too.

"I'll follow your lead," I reply, needing to say it and needing him to hear it.

"What's his agenda, though?" he asks, puzzled.

I sigh, my hand sweeping comfortingly along his arm. It doesn't make sense to me, either. "I don't know, honey."

He nods thoughtfully. He tickles the back of Jamie's neck, a shriek tearing around us at Jamie's surprise. "I hope I don't regret it, Hales."

I nod in acknowledgement, my smile sad and tight. His face morphs into a blank canvas like he's done weighing the situation, and he tickles Jamie again.

Jamie stands, sneakered feet on the couch, and throws his arms around me. He blows a raspberry on my cheek, saying, "I'm hungry."

"We just had milkshakes, Jame."

Another sloppy blow to my cheek. "Mama says I'm still growing."

I crane my neck to look at Nathan. "Milkshakes?"

He grins. "Did I say milkshakes? I meant healthy fruit smoothies."

"I'm sure you did."

In a small corner of the living room, we set up an "office" space, a desk whose one leg is steadied by a wedge and two scuffed chairs that we bought very cheaply at an out-of-business sale for a second-hand furniture store. The marred wooden desk is squeezed into a windowless corner by a floor lamp, and it consists of schoolbooks, folders, and a decent space for a printer and two laptops.

When my computer boots up, I search through my files for the school directory to look up addresses. Our apartment is too small to host a child's party, so I booked a reasonably-priced venue for Jamie's birthday. The playhouse will be sending out the invites as part of the package we selected, and all I need to do is write up the invitation list and send it to them. It's not a long list, just kids from his class and our Tree Hill friends. I plan to invite Kyle, too. He's in Jamie's class and there's no reason for him to miss out because of his father's weirdness. Nathan will be there if Sam tries any funny business.

Except for Brooke, all our friends will be back in Tree Hill for the summer. We usually join them the last two weeks of vacation.

When I call Karen, she tells me that they'll be visiting Andy's family in New Zealand, but she'll send something with Lucas. On Whitey's answering machine, he burrs that he's away but I leave a message in case he gets back before the party. It must be around that time for his annual trip to his cabin in the mountains.

Brooke is going in for a meeting when I call. She's unable to make it, and Jamie will be disappointed as he was really looking forward to seeing her. Everybody else said they'd be there.

Getting in touch with my side of the family will be rather unproductive. For one, I don't even know how to reach my parents. I haven't heard from them since they visited Nathan and tracking them down is next to impossible. They used to have cell phones but ditched them out of frustration, calling them "malicious machines from the jowls of hell."

On the other hand, inviting my siblings is…how do I say this nicely without sounding like a horrible sister? A waste of time.

They've not really been involved in the major events in my life, and neither have I in theirs. They were much older when I was born, and we all just seem to live very separate lives. Taylor is the one I'm closest to in age, if seven years can be termed as closest; she was already in college when I was starting junior high. Once in a while, Vivian, our eldest sister, will drop me an email, and of all my siblings, only Tay and Viv have met Jamie in person.

There're the customary Christmas cards we all swap from the corners of the country. I'd be very surprised if there was a point in time where we'd all be in one place at the same time. At this rate, we'd be classified more as distant relatives than a nuclear family.

"Mama, look!"

When I turn, Jamie is jumping on the mat in the bathroom doorway, naked and dripping wet.

"I'm all clean!"