Downstairs I hear Jesse play, puttering and humming and singing and talking to himself, the faint clicks of him moving Lego pieces, the pop and hiss of his sound effects. Then my mother slap slaps into the living room, her velvet slippers smacking against the floor as she shuffles in, probably holding her tea. She stops by the table where he plays and starts asking a slew of questions: she found these Lego pieces by the door, does he want them? What is he building? When he doesn’t answer, she drifts into observation: it seemed, yesterday, that he didn’t know how to build this thing, but now it looks pretty good; it’s very cold out, isn’t it, it was cold when she went to bed, but now it’s even colder, it must certainly be turning into fall. Then more questions: does he want some breakfast, will he want breakfast when she comes back out again? I am in agony, listening to him try to answer politely. He just wants her to go away. Then she leaves, and he goes back to playing, and about five seconds after that, Käthe comes in— Hey, Badoodles. He doesn’t answer. She says it again. He doesn’t answer. She says it again, louder, sounding annoyed. He says, “Hey.” His privacy hard to maintain, with all these women around, trying to say good morning.