I was picking at an orange slice in my drink, wondering if using the word puissant to describe my father would be overdoing it, when Atlas knocked a tune on the door. We called for him to Come on in. Wearing trim jeans and a relaxed polo, he arrived in the kitchen with a bottle of pinot gris for Cricket and a hug and a kind word for Wallis. For me, the same. I stepped away, gave him space, wishing that it wasn’t necessary to do so. It did, however, give me some distance to watch him. I hadn’t wanted him to wake up this morning uncomfortable with what he’d shared with me the night previous. But there were no signs in his body language and smile that he felt anything but ease in our company. Cricket poured him sangria from the pitcher, mostly ice and sliced stone fruit, but he didn’t complain.

“Thank you for coming,” I said, leaning against the countertop. Did he see it on my face—my worry about the interview? He placed himself next to me, drink in hand.

“You’ve been hunting down Gregory’s crimes,” Cricket said, ignoring my protestations and topping up my drink. “Daisy has told me.”

“I have,” Atlas said, swirling the ice in his glass.

“But this is the right thing to do,” said Cricket, “telling the story.”

“All of it,” agreed Wallis, transferring her vegetable concoction into a blender. “And Daisy is the right person to do it.” I began to quibble this point, for surely there were more intelligent women out there, braver ones, women who hadn’t screwed up so badly or obfuscated the truth, who could share their stories instead, but Wallis insisted, tapping the counter with her wooden spoon. “You are a human being; you’re not perfect. And, sure, you’re risking criticism, but that’s the only way to get things to change.”

I noticed her looking over my shoulder, perhaps imagining storms in the distance. The night before, we’d discussed, as a family, my choice to do the interview and, as Wallis referenced, the risks inherent therein. We all knew it would restart the clock on the scandal. Whatever friendships we’d been able to rebuild, scant in number as they were, would be jeopardized. The hate mail might multiply; our financial liability, too. The bricks. Very possible.

We’d weathered it once. We could do it again.

It didn’t mean we couldn’t still be scared.

“State your name for the record.” Atlas, recorder on, pulling my leg.