As if I didn’t know when he died. But I need to be patient and kind with her. It’s a hard day, the anniversary of Mary’s death. Learning your dad has cheated, fathered a baby who became your sister. It’s a lot. I remind myself I need to smother her with warmth and cheer and support. Besides, she’ll love the new house and we’ll just put all this nastiness behind us.

I say, “I can put the bowl away if it bothers you.” I flash her a big, fake beaming smile. My jeans are sagging and I yank them up on my waist.

Betsy closes the refrigerator. She holds a container of pomegranate seeds, a healthy choice. I’m proud. I always worry about her weight ballooning up. “You know what? It does. It bothers me. And that’s not the only thing wrong. I cannot believe I have to go celebrate Mary’s death today, like I don’t think about her, miss her, every single minute.”

I try to catch her arm but she darts past me, stopping at the door to the kitchen, watching me.

Tears fill my eyes, running down my cheeks. “I miss Mary every minute, too. That’s why I care about you so much. You’re my only focus now. We’ll sit together at the ceremony, I’ll be there for you, Betsy. You can lean on me.”

My tears match Betsy’s. Poor girl. I’m the only parent she needs. I hope she confronts David for me. That would be much more satisfying. He’d be crushed by the disappointment. It’s so important to him to be the hero, Betsy’s perfect dad. Not anymore. Not ever again, it seems.

She wipes her face with her sleeve. “I can’t cry anymore. I can’t do this. I can’t listen to you and your lies. I have to go.” She’s gone, out the door before I can remind her to be home in time for the ceremony. I know she heard me, though. She heard the truth about her philandering father.

A text pops up on my phone: I’m here.

I glance at the time and can’t believe it’s already 10:45 a.m. Such a busy morning. I grab my purse and hustle through the almost tree-free courtyard and out to the street. Sam, my driver of sorts, jumps out of the front seat and opens the passenger door behind the driver’s seat.

His hair is brown and unruly. Always. As if he doesn’t own a comb. “Hey, Mrs. H.”

“Hi, Sam. I took your suggestion and finally did something nice for myself. I had a manicurist come by the house. What do you think?” I flutter the fingers of my right hand.