First, she’d sent a picture of five-year-old me, holding her as a baby. I had the same picture somewhere, and it gutted me that she’d obviously kept one, too. Still, I was able to shake it off. I reminded myself that she really only wanted me in her life to help her with her project; otherwise why hadn’t she shown up before?

But Lexi was playing hardball. Next there’d been a stack of comic books, particularly Flash: The Next Generation, which were the same comics I had read to her when I was eleven and she was six and our family was beginning to unravel. Flash had gotten us through some seriously dark days.

Frustrated by her obvious tactic to manipulate me emotionally, I had sent Jackson to tell her to cease and desist. That had been so successful, note the sarcasm, it was followed up by a cake delivery the very next day. It wasn’t just any cake.

“What sort of cake is this?” Lupita asked with a frown.

She lifted it out of the box, and I felt my throat get tight. I’d seen this cake before, hell, I’d made this cake before. The recipe is quite simple. Have two junkie parents who forget it’s their seven-year-old daughter’s birthday. Take one twelve-year-old big brother, who loves his sister enough to risk being arrested for shoplifting for her. Have him pocket all the candy bars he can fit into his backpack along with a can of Betty Crocker chocolate frosting from the grocery store, and run like hell when the clerk spots him.

At home, find a marginally clean pan in a round shape and chop up all the candy bars, mashing them into the pan until they form a solid block in the shape of a cake. Frost the round block of candy with the stolen frosting. While the parents are out trolling for drugs, present the cake to the little sister and sing her “Happy Birthday.” Have her look at you like you are the single greatest person who ever lived, and for one brief shining moment your life isn’t a complete shitstorm.

“What’s in that?” Jackson asked. “It looks lethal.”

“And a bit lopsided,” Juan said.

“Get out,” I said.

The three of them snapped their heads in my direction. I couldn’t blame them. The voice that came out of me sounded like the growl of a wounded animal, and in that moment I was. I was just a giant sucking wound, festering in the gangrene of my own pain. I couldn’t bear to have anyone look at me.

“I said get out,” I repeated. This time it was through gritted teeth.