The tears started again, stinging the now-raw skin under my eyes. “Thanks, honey,” I said, my voice husky.

“Love you, Sadie.”

“Love you, too.”

I went back to rejoin the family. No one looked up.

“No word from the doctor?” I asked.

“Alas, no,” said Oliver.

Alas? I tried not to be annoyed, but Oliver . . . he was perfectly nice. If he lacked substance in my opinion, I guess it didn’t matter. He was a good father, a good husband, and a brilliant son-in-law, at least according to Mom.

I Googled “stroke with cerebral hemorrhage” on my phone, then decided it would only lead to terror. May as well hear from the doctor first. I sighed. Studied my family. I’d seen them at Christmas, just a few weeks ago, but that seemed like millennia now.

Jules looked frazzled, which was rare, but who could blame her? Her hair was perfectly straight, smooth and dark blond, shoulder length, but now it was tangled, as if she’d been sleeping. Her clothes were wrinkled, too. Usually, she was so put together—her personal style could be called understated hip. Always quality stuff, always a little boring unless you looked closely and saw that her shirt was asymmetrical or she was wearing a wicked cool silver ring. As ever, she was Mom’s guard dog, sitting by her side, reminding her to drink some water, offering her a Life Saver.

She didn’t offer me a Life Saver.

And then there was Oliver, terribly handsome as always, brown hair, green eyes, his teeth blindingly white and straight (he’d gotten braces when he and Juliet were engaged, succumbing to the pressures of American orthodontic standards). He was scrolling through his phone, and I wanted to rip it out of his hands and hit him on the head with it. Every time he caught me looking, he gave that knee-jerk smile. Oliver, I wanted to say, my father might be dying and I realize I’m probably the only one who would really miss him, but could you stop flashing your perfect teeth at me? He’d always been nice to me . . . and also had never made an effort to do more than exchange pleasantries. Then there was the way Juliet showed him off, like he was a prize cow at the state fair. “This is my husband, Oliver Smitherington.” It was that last name, probably. How could you have sex with someone with such a silly last name?

And Mom. Right now, she was a frickin’ statue, her blunt white bob perfectly in place, mascara unsmudged by tears. Why would she cry? She practically hated my father. Tolerated him at best, and while it didn’t feel great to think of my mother as a user, she had sure used Dad. His name, his hard-earned money. She hadn’t had her own job till last year.