Oh yeah. The hair. Even if we didn’t all have Mom’s green eyes and more-or-less heart-shaped faces; even if we weren’t all roughly the same size and build, the hair would give us away. Anne may have her burgundy streak, Joy her neon scrunchie, Margo a Swarovski comb at her crown, and me a tortoiseshell clasp on the right. To a one our faces are haloed by frizz.

Anne has brought in Italian from the restaurant of a friend in Westerly. Antipasto, rigatoni bolognese, charred cauliflower, pappardelle, with a separate side of penne and white sauce for Joy—it’s a divine spread for a precarious gathering. Although we work together putting the food on platters, there are so many elephants in the kitchen with us that it’s an overcrowded place. When we’re together in New York, we focus on noncommittal subjects like books, movies, and UGGs. Here, Anne prattles on with local trivia—a film club forming in Bay Bluff, a tapas place opening in Weekapaug, an independent bookstore thriving in Mystic. It would be sweet and upbeat, if there wasn’t an undercurrent of desperation to it. There is no mention of accusations against Dad, no mention of Mom’s relationship with Elizabeth. Alzheimer’s disease is off the table, and, given the risk of it spilling into dinner with Dad, I’m not raising the issue of my own parentage. A baby would have been something to discuss, if neither of the men were there.

There isn’t talk of Billy either. Anne dares Margo with a defiant look—just dares her to challenge his presence. But Margo is in the same state of uncertainty as when she first arrived that morning. Why am I here? Even after the words she wrote, I hear her thoughts. Hell, they’re my own. Is this supposed to fill the hole in my life? Is this me?

I try to break the ice. That’s my job in this family, though whether tied to DNA or life experience, I do not know—and doesn’t that issue give me pause?