For me it was a defining moment. As of the sugar bowl break, I began to withdraw from the family bosom. I began to read like a maniac, history and biographies especially. I learned that many of my heroes had challenging beginnings, which gave me hope for my future. I babysat for the island’s children and taught myself to do counted cross stitch when I could afford the floss and how to draw with charcoal on a pad of newsprint. I learned to cook and bake by reading Southern Living magazine. Slowly, I redeemed myself because there was always a cake available for slicing or a new ornament for our Christmas tree or a new cross-stitched hand towel for the powder room. But by then I didn’t care as much. I’d grown into a citizen of the world, or so I thought, and saw that both Momma and Leslie were always setting me up for a game of Gotcha! To this very day, Momma still gave me suspicious looks, cutting her cold eyes at me, freezing my heart. All of this started over a cheap, stupid sugar bowl.

But the real truth? Leslie looked like a clone of Momma when Momma was a striking young woman. That was the underlying reason for all of their vitriol. I looked like the man who left her high and dry and gave her back the beach house on Sullivan’s Island that had belonged to her family for generations anyway. In retrospect, it didn’t seem like she got such a sweet deal.

I finally separated enough felt and packed it in a canvas tote bag with my glue gun.

The phone rang. It was probably Leslie, because no one else ever called. It was.

“Hello?”

“Hi. Is Mom awake?”

She sounded terrible, as though she’d been crying.

“Are you all right?”

“Just put Momma on the phone, okay?”

“Hang on,” I said. Sure, sweetheart, anything you want, princess . . .

I put the phone on the counter and went down the hall to peek in our mother’s room. Before I got there, I heard the snoring. Great God in heaven, that woman could snore like every hog in hell was singing the “Hallelujah” chorus from Handel’s Messiah. I went back to the kitchen and picked up the receiver.

“She’s sawing logs,” I said.

“It’s not even ten o’clock,” she said in a very whiny voice.

“What do you want from me? What’s going on, Leslie? You sound awful.”

“You know that trip to Atlantic City I took with Charlie last week?”

“Let me guess. You won a million dollars?”

“No. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, and anyway, I can’t talk about it. Every time I . . .”