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"Watch your step," Aunt Joanna says, descending into the basement. I should keep my eyes glued to the carpeted stairwell leading me down. But all I can stare at are the temples, Bible verses, and pictures of whitewashed Jesus mapping their way down the wall. It was only a matter of time before seeing all this Mormon stuff reminded me of the expectations Aunt Joanna has of us. Pray before every meal. Go to church every Sunday. No swearing. No coffee. And no questioning the rules.

"Ta-da!"

Aunt Joanna hits the lights once we reach the basement. This living space is twice the size of our apartment. A theater screen appears on the far wall. Shelves of books and board games tower on either side of it. A sofa the size of a trampoline sits in a semicircle in the middle of the room.

My shoulders close around my neck like a turtle shell. All this room and nowhere to hide.

"Down the hall are the bedrooms that used to belong to Auburn and Tavie," Aunt Joanna says, referring again to her eighteen-year-old twin daughters who recently moved to Brigham Young University. "Since you came down here first, I suppose you get to choose which room you want."

I nod. I'll do anything to swim out of this sea-size living room. "You're a lifesaver, Aunt Joanna. Thanks for opening your home to us."

That's supposed to be my segue to sneak away, but Aunt Joanna continues. "I'm so glad you're here, Catie. I think this will be a great opportunity for you and your family to find Heavenly Father again."

My smile flickers. Five minutes. That's how long it took for Aunt Joanna to start preaching. Since leaving the church, a part of me misses the certainty of eternal happiness offered by Mormon Sky Daddy. I understand why Aunt Joanna and Dad liked going to church. It gave them purpose, belonging, structure—and basically everything I want now. But I can't worship a god who let my father die knowing I'd be alone on this floating blue rock. And most importantly, I don't need someone else telling me how to pray, tithe, and be baptized just so I can see Dad again in the afterlife. Honestly, it's kind of messed up that Mormon God holds family members hostage like that, but whatever.

"I know you girls are less active now, but you'll love the people in our ward," Aunt Joanna says, patting my arm. "Church is going to set you on the right path, don't you worry."

"Yeah, Aunt Joanna. I'm sure it will." Lie. Maybe this is going to be harder than I thought.

"It's like Mosiah says in the Book of Mormon&"

Oh, no. I haven't even picked out a room yet and Aunt Joanna's about to recite a scripture verse. My lips hurt from the strain of faking a smile.

Aunt Joanna clears her throat. "Yea, and as often as my people repent—" "There you are, Jo!" Mom leans over the railing above our heads. Flyaways poke out of her ponytail. The Coke stain on her hoodie is still there from when she spilled it during the drive. But seeing her disheveled self restores the oxygen to my lungs. Living with Aunt Joanna is going to suck.

But at least with Mom's dynamic around, it'll suck less.

"Do you think you can open the garage for Mavis?" Mom asks. "It might be easier for her to haul the boxes in that way instead of going through the front door."

I swallow the lump in my throat. Ideally, the fact that Mavis is bringing boxes inside means that she and Mom have reached a truce. "Of course!" Aunt Joanna says, bounding up the stairs.

Mom shifts her focus to me. She must notice something is wrong, because she frowns the moment we lock eyes. Instead of following Aunt Joanna to the garage, Mom marches down the stairs. "Did she already promise to write your name in the temple or something? Or was she going to make your uncle Nick give you a priesthood blessing for comfort?"

She's being funny, but I can't laugh. When I have no response, Mom sits on the bottom step. She doesn't need to speak for me to understand. I set my box down and join her. This is our thing—stair talk time.

I remember sitting on the cracked concrete steps outside our apartment when she explained what was happening the first day I got my period. When she told me about Dad's diagnosis. When she first confessed we'd be moving to Utah for the summer. She's the greatest mother I've ever known, and yet I don't know how to talk to her about Ya-Fang. How do I tell Mom that I love her, but in some illogical way, I love Ya-Fang too?

"Growing up, I used to tell Joanna that she needed to smoke with me so that she would finally get off her high horse," Mom says, breaking the silence. "And join me on my own high horse. She never did, though."

I chuckle against my will. "How are you even sisters?"

Mom smirks. "Believe me, Catie, I've been asking myself the same question for almost forty years. Jo's always been the 'better child.' And look at us now. I'm her homeless older sister, and she knows she's the only person I can go to for help. I'm sorry that we're stuck here. I know how much this hurts you and Mavis." I stare down at my hands, pretending to be fascinated by the creases on my palms. If I follow one of these lines, will it carry me to a happy future far from here?