“Twenty years, Margo,” I remind her, then explain, “He needs the space in the car for cages and supplies. And for his dog,” I tack on, feeling a wave of guilt at having shut the dog off by himself last night. “Jack is a vet,” I add, watching to see if he looks our way. I see the chestnut of his hair and glimpse purple scrubs but no face.

“But why’s she going with him?”

“She talked herself into an internship. This was before she started working at Anne’s.” With the briefest glance our way, he waves and leaves. I want more, but don’t know what, especially with my sister right here. So, taking a cue from my daughter, I ask as the truck disappears, “What do we do about Anne?”

Margo says nothing. Arms folded, she is watching me from the door frame. With her wavy hair loose, her face clean, and her eyes probing, she looks so much like the Margo she used to be that it’s scary. Or flattering. She’s aged well.

I wait, but she remains silent. “What?” I finally ask.

“Do you love Jack?”

“I always loved Jack.”

“Still? Now?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Like an old friend.”

“Is that what last night was about?” she asks innocently enough.

What does she want to hear? That all we did was talk? Or that Jack started bad-mouthing Dad, so I left? Or that he called Margo insane regarding our mothers? None of this is true, but I’d be willing to say any of these things if that will end it. Saying what people want to hear is my forte.

So here I am again, caught between pleasing others and asserting myself. And suddenly, what Margo wants me to say doesn’t matter. I can’t please others all the time. Last night proved that. There is a me inside that appears to have grown bigger than the me I was back then. If I am who I am now—if I am who I want to be—I have to act it.

“Last night,” I tell her, “was about my needing comfort and his being the one who could give it.”

She is quiet for several beats. Then, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” I snap, still in assertive mode. “There’s nothing wrong with my needing Jack. He may be irreverent, but he is honest and smart. He understands what I’m about, and he cares. If you’re going to talk about how awful he was twenty years ago—”

“I’m not,” she interrupts. “What I meant was that I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you.”

Having been ready to argue, I’m suspended while the apology registers. Then I laugh in relief. “You covered for me with Joy. That was the best.”

“So,” she gives me a reprieve from Jack, “is Anne pregnant, and why did she call you the bastard daughter?”