That night of the flashback in Ocean Avenue, I told Em I was worried about Molly—alone in the Manchester house with all those guns. “Molly won’t shoot herself—she wouldn’t leave a mess for one of us to deal with,” Em assured me.

That February, one night when Grace was awake, we watched the end of Every Other Weekend together. I had an armload of clothes and was leaving when Grace told me to stay.

“You must see the ending—worst scene ever,” Grace said.

“I’ve already seen it,” I reminded her.

“You should see it again—every writer can’t see this scene enough,” Grace told me.

From a partially open door, the tired-looking blonde stares at the car parked in the driveway. A love song is fading in as Paul Goode gets out of the driver’s side of the car; he opens the back door for a little girl. Paul kneels down in the driveway and kisses the little girl goodbye; she is fighting back tears as he helps her put on her backpack. Paul walks the child halfway to the open door. The blonde doesn’t come outside. The little girl runs inside the house without looking back at her father. The woman never looks at Paul; she just closes the door after her daughter. It takes Paul Goode a couple of seconds to compose himself; the love song is fading out as he gets back in the car.

“That’ll be us,” Grace told me.

“That won’t be us—we’ve agreed to joint custody,” I reminded her.

“That’ll be us—that’s how we’ll feel,” Grace said.

Grace never used to watch the terrible Paige what’s-her-name, the movie journalist for the Hollywood gossip show, but Grace was watching her every night now. My father’s love life was of interest to Paige, and to Grace. And Toby Goode was nineteen now, a boy prone to get into trouble; Paige took an interest in Toby’s troubles, too.

There was the night Grace was riveted to an awards show at a film festival in Europe; it wasn’t one I’d heard of. God knows why Paige was there, but so was Paul Goode. He was with a girl in a dress that had a décolletage for miles; you could get lost in that cleavage. My father must have been seventy, or he soon would be. The girl with her boobs spilling out of the dress was young enough to be his granddaughter.

“It’s Paul Goode,” Paige whispered to camera. “Get a load of the nymph that’s with him!”

My father had a tight-lipped smile when Paige called out to him. “Paul! Talk to me, Paul!” Paige was calling, but my father and the nymph made their way along the red carpet—not pausing for Paige, or the photographers, or the TV cameras.