I hear footsteps in the hall. Betsy walks into the kitchen wearing black jeans, a black T-shirt and a frown. Her nose piercing taunts me, sparkles, challenging me to say something about it.

I swallow. “Good morning. Can I get you breakfast?”

Betsy’s face scrunches together with disgust as if she’s having an alien encounter. She wasn’t expecting me to be here. I enjoy surprising my daughters. It keeps them off balance.

She says, “No. I don’t eat breakfast. I thought you knew that by now.”

She’s so surly. Perhaps I should give her something to think about at school today, a little tidbit of juicy information for her to ponder during art class. “Did you know your father is Mary’s biological dad?” I ask.

Betsy’s disdain face has been replaced by something else. Her mouth drops open. She didn’t know.

“What are you talking about? Have you been drinking? Popping pills?” She throws her hands on her hips, ready to argue with me.

“No, of course not. I had coffee with Mary’s birth mother, you remember Elizabeth? Mary told you all about her.”

“So, that’s old news. You always told Mary she was adopted. I still don’t know why you made such a big deal about her wanting to meet her birth mom.” Betsy shakes her head.

She’s trying to act like this revelation doesn’t matter, that it isn’t true, but I can see the stress in her clenched jaw, her rigid posture.

“It is a big deal. All of it.” I know my voice is cold, hard.

Betsy takes a step back. “You’re lying about Dad, aren’t you?”

I fight a surprise burst of emotion threatening to choke my voice. “No, I’m not. We were married when he, well...” I cover my face with my hands, push tears from my eyes.

Betsy leans against the counter, deciding what to think.

I mumble, “I’m devastated.”

“Did Dad tell you this is true?” she asks.

“No.” I sob. “Haven’t talked to him yet. But it’s true. Your dad is a liar. I’m sorry.” I’ve needed a little leverage, something to force a space between them. I’ve found it.

“I have to go to school. I need to get out of here. It’s all screwed up, everything. I mean, when are you going to get rid of Cash’s dog bowl?” She points at the white porcelain bowl tucked under the kitchen island. The words—Love. Eat. Play. Cash.—are glazed in black block lettering on the side of the bowl.

Obvious change of subject, darling daughter, but fine, I’ll play. “Oh, does it bother you?”

“Kinda, yeah. He died six months ago.” Betsy yanks open the refrigerator, hiding her tears.