Epilogue
EMMA
I’m standing on the front steps of my parents’ brownstone in Park Slope, juggling a bouquet of peach-colored peonies (Mom’s favorite), a cheese platter from Murray’s that cost more than my first camera, and my phone, which is currently pressed between my ear and shoulder in a move that would make my chiropractor weep.
“Are you there yet?” Dad asks.
“I’m literally at the door.”
“I can see that.”
I look up at the Ring doorbell camera mounted next to the frame and wave. “Then why did you call to ask?”
“Just making sure you made it safely.”
“From the train? Dad, I’m twenty-six. I’ve been taking the subway by myself since I was twelve.”
“That doesn’t mean I stop worrying.”
I smile despite myself. “Can you actually see me through this thing?”
There’s a beat of silence. “Define ‘see.’”
“Dad.”
“I can tell there’s a person at the door. I just can’t make out any specific features. It’s all very…abstract.”
“You mean it’s shot to hell.”
“The image quality could be better, yes.”
I burst out laughing. “Are you serious? That completely defeats the purpose of having a doorbell camera!”
“It keeps intruders at bay!” he says defensively. “They don’t know I can’t actually see them.”
“So it’s a fake. You’re relying on the concept of surveillance.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s the most Greek thing I’ve ever heard.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you found a way to have security without actually paying for security.” I’m grinning now. “Let me guess—you didn’t want to pay for the app subscription.”
Another pause. “It’s two hundred dollars a year just to see through the damn camera, Emma. Two hundred dollars! That’s robbery.”
“Dad, you’re a tenured professor at Columbia married to one of the most famous news anchors in the world. You can afford two hundred dollars.”
“It’s the principle of the thing!”
“The principle is that you’re cheap.”
“I prefer fiscally responsible.”
“You were never going to pay full price for it. You probably tried to negotiate with Ring, didn’t you?”
“That’s—I’m not—this isn’t what I called to talk about! I wanted to say thank you for doing all this for your mom, Em. For taking time off work, away from your clients. I know how busy you are.”
“Duh. I wouldn’t have missed it.”
“Is Brandon able to make it?”
“Yeah, he’s coming later. He had a root canal that ran late.” Brandon’s a dentist. A very good one, apparently, though I wouldn’t know since I actively avoid going to the dentist. He says I have excellent teeth. I say he’s biased because he’s my husband.
“That’s good. We haven’t seen you two in a while. I’ve missed you, Em.”
My throat tightens. “I’ve missed you too, Dad.”
And I mean it.
I feel guilty because the last couple months I’ve been pretty absent.
Wedding season is insane for photographers, and running your own business means you’re never actually off the clock.
There’s always another email to answer, another contract to send, another bride having a meltdown about whether the scenery will be romantic enough.
I love it. I love being my own boss, setting my own schedule, choosing which projects to take. I love that every wedding I shoot is different, that I get to tell people’s stories through images, that I’ve built something from nothing. But holy shit, it’s exhausting.
There’s the actual photography—the shooting, the editing, the constant pressure to be creative and original.
But then there’s all the other stuff they don’t tell you about in art school.
The accounting. The marketing. The website maintenance.
The social media. The client management.
The equipment upkeep. The insurance. The contracts. The invoicing. The taxes.
I hired an assistant last year, which helps. But it’s still me at the center of it all, making every decision, carrying every responsibility.
Some days I love it so much I can’t believe I get paid to do this. Other days I want to throw my camera in the East River and become a barista.
I peek down into my purse at the little envelope poking out from my wallet.
The ultrasound.
My biggest surprise yet. Baby Roussos-Palmer, due next March.
I found out three weeks ago. Brandon cried.
I cried. We ate an entire pizza and then I threw it all up twenty minutes later because morning sickness has been kicking my ass.
The last few weeks in particular have been hell.
I’ve been nauseous basically every waking moment.
Crackers help. Ginger ale helps. Lying very still and praying for death also helps.
I’ve wanted to call Mom so badly. To ask her how she survived this, what helped, whether it’s normal to feel like you’re dying while simultaneously being thrilled about growing a human. But I’m more determined to keep it a surprise, just for a little while longer.
“You still there?” Dad asks.
“Yeah, sorry. Just got inside.”
“Okay. I’ll see you soon, kiddo. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I hang up and push open the front door, which is unlocked because even though my parents have lived in Brooklyn for two decades, they still act like we’re in some idyllic Greek village where everyone knows everyone and crime is just a vague concept.
The house smells like home immediately. Lemon cake baking in the oven—Mom’s nervous baking tells me she’s been stressed lately. Lavender from the candles she burns constantly. Coffee from the espresso machine that’s basically the sixth member of the family.
I step into the entryway and just stand there for a second, taking it in.
They bought it when I was six, right after they got married.
Mom had just gotten her first big promotion at CBS, and Dad had finally gotten tenure.
It was this massive, terrifying purchase—a three-story brownstone that needed a lot of work.
I remember walking through it that first time, Mom pointing out all the potential, Dad calculating costs in his head, me just thrilled that I was still going to have my own room.
The living room is to my left. There’s an exposed brick wall, a deep green couch that’s been reupholstered twice, built-in bookshelves crammed with everything from Dad’s neuroscience journals to Mom’s true crime obsession to my high school yearbooks.
There’s a fireplace that we actually use in the winter, gathering around it like we’re in some Nancy Meyers movie.
The kitchen archway frames the farmhouse table where we ate dinner every single night—Mom at one end, Dad at the other, the three of us scattered between them.
Even when Mom was too tired to talk. Even when Allie was crying into her broccoli.
Even when Michalis and I weren’t speaking to each other over some transgression neither of us could remember by morning.
We were there, and we were together. Family dinners were something Mom was insistent on growing up, and they became impossible to get out of no matter how hard we tried.
The staircase curves upward, its banister worn smooth by twenty years of small hands sliding along it.
I used to sit on the fourth step from the bottom, the one that didn’t creak, and eavesdrop on the grown-up conversations drifting up from the living room.
I thought I was invisible. I thought they couldn’t hear my breath catching when something scandalous was revealed, but they always could. They just let me have my illusions.
There are photographs on every surface, every wall, every available inch of horizontal and vertical space, claimed and colonized by memory.
Me at seven, gap-toothed and sunburned, holding up a fish I’d caught on a trip to the Cape, my expression equal parts pride and terror.
Michalis at two, round as a dumpling, covered in birthday cake frosting, his chubby fist raised in triumph.
Allie in eighth grade, dressed as Maria from The Sound of Music, her face painted with stage makeup, beaming at a future she couldn’t yet imagine.
The four of us on the dock in Mykonos, squinting into the sun, Mom’s arm around my shoulders, Dad’s hand on Michalis’s head.
And the wedding photo, always the wedding photo: Mom and Dad under the chuppah, their faces young and serious, Mom heavily pregnant with Michalis at that point and me between them—six years old in a purple velvet dress, clutching a bouquet of baby’s breath with the biggest grin I’ve probably ever had.
Before I can sink too deep into the undertow of memory, I hear footsteps—heavy, rapid, unmistakable—and then I’m airborne.
“EM!”
Michalis has me in a full embrace, my feet dangling six inches above the floor, his arms locked around my ribcage with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever who hasn’t yet realized he’s fully grown.
He’s six feet and five inches of lanky limbs and too much energy, compressed into the body of a twenty-year-old man.
“Put me down, you giant!”
He grins and obeys, setting me gently back onto solid ground. His hands remain on my shoulders, steadying me unnecessarily. “You’re so small. When did you get so small?”
“I’ve always been five-six. You’re just freakishly tall.”
Michalis is twenty now, home for the summer from NYU. He’s a perfect mix of Mom and Dad—thick brown curls like Dad, hazel eyes like Mom, a strong bone structure and cleft chin that makes every single one of my friends ask if he’s single.
I look around at the decorations in the living room and can immediately tell that a man did this.
There are balloons. So many balloons. Like, an obscene number of balloons.
They’re clustered in the corners in these weird, lumpy bunches instead of being spread out evenly and I’m pretty sure some of them say “Happy Birthday.” The banner that says “CONGRATULATIONS ANNIE” is crooked—one end is sagging, held up by what appears to be masking tape.