The last straw would be the fact that the sun is shining and there’s a whole row of yellow and pink tulips sprouting in the funeral home’s flower beds that line the walkway. Pat would want wailing and rain and a scene full of black umbrellas. He liked drama and attention, which is how he ended up with Nina Mathews. My mom has purses older than Nina.

The second Mrs. Wilson was a waitress at a bar that Dad liked to frequent. One thing led to another and she got pregnant. I was informed via text: Hey sport. Brush up on your baby facts. You’re going to be a big sister soon.

The second-fatherhood thing must’ve terrified him so much that his heart gave out. That and the fact that his arteries were as hard as a cinder block.

“This whole thing looks so . . . cheap,” Mom declares with a sniff. “But what do you expect from someone like her. Trash only knows trash.”

I wince. Mom hasn’t always been this antagonistic toward Dad’s new wife. Up until yesterday, Mom’s primary emotion toward the current Mrs. Wilson was one of pity. That poor girl better start hiding the grocery money or She’s wasting her youth on that man. But last night, the new Mrs. Wilson revealed that Dad left a mortgage bigger than the value of the small two-bedroom that they lived in and a car loan that was three months late. Oh, and an insurance policy of twenty grand. Mom had demanded I get half. Dad had died without a will, and per the law, I guess I was entitled to some share. Mrs. Wilson countered that it was all that young Ryder would have to put toward his college education. You’ve already been to college and gotten a degree, Nina had said, her small face looking more pinched than normal. Don’t be selfish.

Mom disagreed, loudly, and maintained that as Patrick Wilson’s daughter, I deserved an equal portion. Nina then made the mistake of saying Ryder deserved it more because he was the real child. I’d had to drag Mom out of the house before she committed a homicide. She was that angry. How dare that tramp say that about you? Of course you’re his real child!

What Nina meant, what everyone means when they say that I’m not Pat Wilson’s real kid, is that I’m adopted. I don’t look anything like my parents and this has been the cause of a great deal of confusion to strangers who would sometimes stupidly ask Mom where my actual parents were. Mom always responded tersely that she was my real mother. Real because I’m the one who raised you. It doesn’t matter who gave birth to you. I chose you. I supported you. I raised you.

And she did. She wiped my tears, made my lunches, took me to my appointments, paid for my college, bought me a car, and even helped me with the down payment on a condo, which makes me the envy of all my millennial coworkers. I’m actually doing fine because of her and don’t need half of the insurance policy, although I know my friends would tell me to take it and go on some wild vacation. I glance toward my purse, where a folded email rests. I’ve been thinking about traveling lately . . . but, no, if I take that trip I’ll use my own funds.