“There’s no need to take that tone, Phoebe. But yes, if you want to put it like that.”

Phoebe began to laugh, not the kind of laughter that invited participation but the kind that made it clear Lily had said something incredibly stupid.

“What’s funny?”

“If you think our family’s happy then I’d hate to see your definition of unhappy. Dad lives three and a half thousand miles away and we haven’t seen him in over four months. Your sister can’t bear to be in the same room as you and wouldn’t even let me meet my cousin for seventeen years because she hates you so much. And now you’re heading off on this transatlantic trip with Gran based on a half-baked fantasy that you’re all going to come home gloriously reunited. And you call that happy?”

Phoebe laughed again—high-pitched, grating—and Lily felt as though she’d been deposited on top of a mountain at an unfeasibly high altitude. “Phoebe, I know you’re upset, but that’s no excuse to speak to me like that. I’m sorry I didn’t realize about you being gay, but you must know I wouldn’t have a problem with it. You must know that. I’m sorry I didn’t guess without you having to tell me. You’re my daughter and I probably should have intuited it but I didn’t, I had no idea, and I’m sorry.”

“Of course you had no idea. How can you have any idea about anything when you’re never around?”

“That’s not fair. I’m not never around. You’re the one who’s barely at home these days, and that’s fine—you’re a teenager, I expect you to be out and about with your friends. But please don’t attack me for it.”

“So it’s all my fault you work every waking hour? It’s because I’m never home? So what’s your excuse for never being at home when I was little? What’s the reason you missed practically every sports day, every nativity play, every school concert? What’s the reason you turned up late to every parents’ evening, as though somehow you were more special than everyone else and all the teachers should have to wait for your arrival, like you were the Queen of bloody Sheba? Do you know something? When I was little I thought I must have done something really naughty because you were never at home. Because it was the nanny who took me to school, who collected me afterward, who listened to stories about what I’d been doing all day. Because she was the one who spent every afternoon painting pictures with me and acting out The Lion King or Sleeping Beauty, who cooked my dinner and sat next to me while I ate it, who played games with me at bath time and read books before bed. I spent years thinking there must be something wrong with me because you weren’t one of the mums who ever picked up their child from school. So was that my fault too? Was that my fault for being so stupid when I was five years old?”