The efficient voicemail message is brief and directive. “Three, for Saturday outdoors. Please call us back to let us know that you plan to be here.” I know that is what restaurants, where all tables are reserved weeks in advance, require, even in non-Covid times. And I dutifully call back, offer my name to the voice on the other end, and confirm that our party of three will indeed be there at noon on Saturday. It’s an ordinary moment, sandwiched between back-to-back meetings in my packed workday. Except that the lunch I am confirming and the three of us who are attending are about to experience something that is far from ordinary. Three middle-aged siblings who have never met. All of whom thought they were two of two. Two who thought they were the eldest of two. One of those is now a middle child, the other the eldest of three. One of us thought he had one older sister but now has two. Yes, we will be there at noon on Saturday and we’ll follow all the expectations for our table at this popular spot. Meanwhile, we will navigate a moment for which there are no guidelines and which none of us ever imagined.