“Scarabs,” I say, unable to take my eyes off it.

“Yeah, I know they’re bugs and that’s weird, but I thought because of what they symbolize—”

“Hope and rebirth.” I trace my finger along the smooth, cool jade, then look up into his eyes. “It’s perfect.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His smile is sunshine, and he reaches up and traces his fingers along my green stripe. “Plus it goes with your hair.”

“You thought of everything.”

“You’re pretty much everything I’ve thought of for a while now.”

My heart flutters and I have no idea how to respond to that, or to this gift. That same giddy current has resumed its path of havoc through my veins. “Orion, I—”

Michelle taps a glass and croaks that the room will open now with a special tour from the designer and daughter of the collectors. She gives a slightly painful preamble about ancient Egypt and its invaluable place in history, and the Egyptians’ science and culture. And then she stops and I realize it’s my turn.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I go up on my tiptoes and kiss Ry’s cheek, then dart past him so I can’t see his reaction.

I stand in front of the still-closed doors. “We can learn the most about a culture by studying what was important to them. And in the world of ancient Egypt, they worshipped life and death in equal parts. Isis and Osiris, the focal points of our exhibit, represented those opposite”—I pause, realizing I mean what I’m about to say—“but equally beautiful and necessary parts of the human existence.” I open the doors and walk in.

Everyone follows, crowding the doorway, the silence either awed or bored. I really, really hope it’s awe. Standing in front of the first item, a remarkably well-preserved sculpture of my mother with the Pharaoh Thutmose II as a baby on her lap, I say, “I give you Isis, Mother of the Gods, Light Giver of Heaven, Mistress of the House of Life, Lady of the Words of Power. Goddess of Motherhood, Magic, and Fertility. First daughter of the Earth and Sky. Protector of beginnings.” I pause, then smile. “Perhaps the greatest evidence of Isis’s magic, however, was her br**sts’ ability to remain so round and perky after nursing hundreds of pharaohs.”

There’s a pause, then Scott, standing in the front row, bursts out in raucous laughter, which quickly spreads through the room, and I know I have them. Thank you, maternal nudity. Who knew you’d save me? Sirus, near the back with Deena, rolls his eyes at me with a grin.

I move to the next exhibit, a statue of my father, with the atef crown and his crook and staff, sitting in his throne. It gives me an odd pang of homesickness. “Isis isn’t complete without her husband and counterpart, Osiris, Foremost of the Westerners, Lord of the Dead, Lord of Silence, Lord of Love. Osiris was the god of the underworld and afterlife, but unlike many cultures’ underworld deities who lorded over damned and trapped spirits, Osiris was also celebrated as the god of reincarnation. His domain was one that was carefully planned for and optimistically anticipated.”

I move to a large vase depicting both of them, my mother with the cow-horn headdress and huge, outstretched wings, my father with green skin, the color of rebirth. “Isis’s motherhood and fertility ushers in life, and Osiris rules over the transition of that life to a new one. They are birth and death and rebirth, an eternal cycle, each incomplete without the other.” I smile. “Of course, like all couples, they had speed bumps: arguments over whose turn it was to wash the pottery; Osiris leaving his crook and staff by the foot of the bed where Isis was constantly tripping on them; that time Osiris sired Anubis with Isis’s sister Nephthys, the wife of Set. Families are complicated, and ancient Egyptian deities were no exception.”

I gesture to a fresco on the wall of my mother, again with the cow-horn headdress, standing next to Whore-us in all his falcon-headed glory and the sun god Amun-Re. The fresco is covered with elaborate hieroglyphs. I realize with a start that they are in my mother’s own hand, her secret writing. She made this one herself. It’s all I can do not to reach up and trace the words.

Idiot gods help me, I miss her.

“Horus, a miracle child conceived after Isis brought Osiris back from the dead, took his father’s place as the god-king of Egypt. He was his mother’s pride and joy. She even went so far as to poison the sun god to trick him into revealing his name to her, forever giving herself and her son power over the most powerful god. It takes the concept of an overcompetitive soccer mom to a whole new level.”

I smile and wait for the laughter to stop. “So imagine her despair, after everything she did to get Horus here and then secure his place among the gods, when he married Hathor, the goddess of sex and beer. You thought your daughter-in-law was hard to get along with. . . .”

It continues like that, as I detail the story of my family, mixing mythology with the personalities the audience has no idea these gods have. I even use dear old Thoth’s story of how he added extra days to the calendar to trick the Sun into letting the Sky have her children. By the end I am both exhausted and elated. As I discuss the murder of Osiris and make a joke about the rather overwhelming depiction of the vital manparts Isis magically made out of clay for the resurrected Osiris, I feel a strange sense of tenderness toward my parents. As screwed up as they are, I can’t deny the impact they had on an entire culture. It’s an impact that even thousands of years haven’t been able to erase entirely. Somehow, talking about their dual roles has helped me reconcile my parents with their godly attributes.