And my mom got a call from Candace’s mom, yelling, calling us mean girls, saying that she was going to phone the school and tell them we were bullying her daughter. Of course, that only made her less popular. Soon she’d faded into obscurity, and from my brain apparently, for the past fourteen years.

My mom, though, harbored this deep resentment against that whole situation. She’d been demoted from the PTA, asked to be a note taker instead of a chairwoman. That was the real tragedy of the situation, in her mind. And nothing has changed since.

“Well, Candace and her husband bought a house around here. A weekend home. She’s pregnant, too. They live on the Upper East Side. Her husband’s a lawyer. She’s glowing. But of course, she didn’t even have to ask about you.” Mom twists her face up into a grimace. “She didn’t even pretend. She went right in and said, ‘Oh, you must be so concerned about Vera. And to have lost that amazing job, too? Gosh, I can’t imagine it. And what that poor woman’s family went through! You just must be so, so concerned. I met James when we were in college, so I never had to go on those dating apps, thank God. Look at the kind of men you find there!’” Mom shuts up, finally, and shakes her head. I remain unmoving, breathless, waiting for her next barb.

“You know what, Vera? I’ve let you hide out here too long. You need to stand on your own two feet again, deal with this mess in your wake. A mess that you got yourself involved in with your bad judgment. You’re twenty-eight years old for God’s sake. No matter what you say, we all have a hand in the cards that we’re dealt in this life and you fucked up. And by the way, your stupidity hasn’t just impacted you.” She pauses, huffs out the rest.

“How do you think it feels to see everyone else’s daughters getting married and having their own kids? Getting on with their lives? It’s so embarrassing. God, your brothers were just so much easier.” She flings open the door and stalks out, stomping her way back downstairs. I hear the clang of the teakettle.

Before I can process any emotions, sit with Mom’s words too long, I text Quinn.

Kick Hamano out. I’m coming home.

11

One year ago

The Mark Ryden show, without crowds, was exquisite. I spent what felt like hours marveling over every intricate detail, following every infinitesimal brushstroke. Tom didn’t trail me around the gallery as I feared he would. Instead, he wandered off, studied the works that interested him. Not nearly as long or as carefully as I did, but I appreciated his independence.