ON JACQUELINE AND JILLIAN’S fifth birthday, they had a cake with three tiers, covered in pink and purple roses and edible glitter. They had a party in the backyard with a bouncy castle and a table covered in gifts, and all the kids from their preschool were invited, along with all the children whose parents worked at Chester’s firm, or served on one of Serena’s boards. Many of them were older than the twins and formed their own little knots in corners of the yard or even inside, where they wouldn’t have to listen to the younger children screaming.

Jillian loved having all her friends in her very own yard, where she knew the topography of the lawn and the location of all the sprinkler heads. She raced around like a wild thing, laughing and shrieking, and they raced with her, because that was how her friends had learned to play. Most of them were boys, too young to have learned about cooties and “no girls allowed.” Louise watched from the back porch, frowning a little. She knew how cruel children could be, and she knew how much of Jillian’s role was being forced upon her by her parents. In a year or two, the flow of things was going to change, and Jillian was going to find herself marooned.

Jacqueline held back, sticking close to Gemma, wary of getting dirt on her pretty dress, which had been chosen specifically for this event, and which she was under strict instructions to keep as clean as possible. She wasn’t sure why—Jillian got covered in mud all the time, and it always washed out, so why couldn’t they wash her dresses?—but she was sure there was a reason. There was always a reason, and it was never one her parents could explain to her.

Chester manned the barbecue, demonstrating his skill as a chef and a provider. Several of the partners were nearby, nursing beers and chatting about work. His chest felt like it was going to burst with pride. Here he was, the father in his own home, and there they were, the people he worked for, seeing how impressive his family was. He and Serena should have had children much sooner!

“Your daughter’s a real scrapper, eh, Wolcott?”

“She is indeed,” said Chester, flipping a burger. (The fact that he called people who did this for a living “burger-flippers” and looked down his nose at them was entirely lost on him, as it was on everyone around him.) “She’s going to be a spitfire when she gets a little older. We’re already looking into peewee soccer leagues. She’ll be an athlete when she grows up, just you wait and see.”