I consider. “Making chicken soup.”

“But you don’t cook,” Anne argues.

“From scratch?” Margo asks.

“My daughter insists on organic, so yes, it’s from scratch.”

Before Anne can say that the meal we’ve all just eaten is far from organic, Joy raises her hand. “Okay, next question. Dream birthday gift.”

“Breakfast in bed,” Margo says. “I’m always the one who has to make breakfast.”

Anne snickers. “Me, too, but I choose to do it. My dream gift is a horse.”

“A horse?” I ask. “Where did that come from?”

“I’ve always wanted a horse. Remember the horses in the Fourth of July parade?”

“Remember the street sweeper that followed them?” Margo asks.

“Remember us sitting on the curb watching?” I add.

“And laughing,” Anne says. “Remember the candy the riders threw?”

“To distract us from what was happening at the other end of the horse,” Margo says. Standing to gather dishes, she asks Anne, “Is Dad okay?”

Anne reaches for the drinking glasses. “He’s good. He’ll be reading or puzzling or staring. It’s his usual after-dinner thing.”

“My dream birthday gift,” Joy announces in a loud voice, “is my father’s name.”

No one speaks.

She looks at Margo, Anne, then me. “What? You know I want that. I’ve always wanted it.”

“I’ve explained legal contracts,” I say and grab the depleted pasta platter.

“That doesn’t mean it can’t be my dream.”

I hand her the platter. “Kitchen,” I instruct, and once Anne ushers her there, I collect unused silverware.

“Don’t be angry with her,” Margo says, holding the dirty dishes while I return the silver to its drawer.

“I’m not. I’m just surprised she said it in front of you all.”

“Us all? Anne and me? We’re family. You’ve told us she wants that.”

“I know.” My anger fades. I close the drawer. “It’s a touchy point for me. Evokes guilt.” And isn’t that hypocritical? Here am I, desperate to learn the identity of my biological father, and I deprive my daughter of it?

“Want to talk about that?” Margo asks.

“Not really.” After scooping up dirty linen, I follow her into the kitchen.

“Can we still play?” Joy asks, meaning Am I forgiven?

“Absolutely.” I dump the linen on a chair and rub my hands on my shorts. “What’s next?”

“Forbidden desire.”

“Forbidden desire?” Anne echoes, sounding alarmed. I actually think her alarm is real. She’s afraid of being laughed at. Or of saying something about being a mother.

Putting a hand on her arm, I look at Joy and clarify, “You mean, like what do we want that we can never, ever have in real life?” When Joy nods, I tell Anne, “We can do this.” I broaden my gaze. “I want a PhD in Art History.”

“Seriously?” Margo asks.

Anne answers with a sigh. “It’s in character. She’s the artsy one.”