The first person I saw coming into the kitchen was my brother. The lanky, emo brother I remembered had been replaced by a tall, dark man with broad shoulders, wavy dark brown hair, and a poker face. I was so angry I couldn’t speak. My mom trilled a hello and hugged Martin around the waist. She barely comes up to his shoulder. Dad walked in with boxes of pizza in his arms, trailing two four-year-old boys.

“Smells delicious,” Wren said. “Boys, go wash your hands.” The tw...