“That family,” Mom says. “Your father tried to take care of them all, but as far as I could see he was the only one to make it out of there as, well, as a fully functioning adult, Gillian. The younger ones all ran wild. Lorna was the baby, you know. The only girl. Your father adored her. There was eighteen years between them—she was almost more a daughter to him than a sister.”

The bartender passes by again—the other people lingering at the bar have left, and I guess it’s not exactly a happening spot, this shabby little hotel bar, because we’re now the only ones here—and feeling reckless, I push my empty glass back towards him.

“I’ll have another, please.”

Mom hesitates, but not for long.
  “Make it two.”
   They’re playing holiday tunes on the stereo. The playlist must not be very long, as this feels like the third time we’ve heard “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” in that faux-sassy, little-girl voice that I’m coming to really dislike.

“Oh, Gillian. I miss your father,” Mom says suddenly. It’s not that the statement is surprising, it’s just the first time she’s actually said those words out loud. In her mouth—Gloria Gerritsen, the woman who shows no weakness—it sounds like a confession.

“I miss him too,” I say, and apparently the words themselves are a trigger, instantly forming a lump in my throat that only a large swallow of gin and vermouth can help me get down.

“We’d had end-of-life conversations, you know.” She pauses. “I remember he said he wanted me not to grieve too long. He said, less than six months and I’ll be offended, Gloria. And a year is okay, too. But some people turn into monsters if they live alone too long, and you’re one of them.” She shakes her head, gives me a half-smile. “He didn’t show it all that often but he had a good sense of humor, your dad.”

She doesn’t need to tell me that.

It was a sense of humor that came fully alive when he was with my sister; not quite so much with me. Instead Dad was full of praise for me, but always for the things I already knew I was good at, like being well-behaved and “such a help to your mother”. For being good at school, tidy and diligent and smart. I was his serious girl. And yet I don’t think I ever wanted to be so serious. Maybe when Abigail became the wild child I was the one who had to be the over-achiever, like a racehorse trained for the highest jumps.

Just then my phone starts ringing. My first thought is that it’s Oliver, and I’m halfway to answering when I see the name on the screen: Dennis. I hesitate a moment, but pick up.

“Dennis?”