Ensconced in a corner by the alfresco bar were Lily and her boyfriend, a reedy, nondescript kid in a Horace Mann blazer. She didn’t budge from her position or speak unless addressed point-blank, though he frequently sallied forth, a bougie hunter-gatherer, in order to bring back heaping portions of artisanal junk food—burgers, chicken strips, fish sandwiches—with a variety of “deconstructed” aiolis. “She’s drunk,” Lily said, implicating her mother with a glance, and ushered him into the house. At an unsuspicious distance, I tailed them—I had something to give her, for her and no one else. They evaded me behind a closed door upstairs, so instead of interrupting, I snooped. Alas, it was as expected—the medications, the thread count—though in an underwear drawer I did find a gleaming chrome dildo that resembled less a dildo than a Brâncuşi or a parametric mockup of a bridge or spaceship. Although perhaps I perceived it so because of the person to whom it belonged. Briefly, I contemplated stealing the dildo. For the rest of my life, I’d display it and pronounce, “This dildo used to pleasure Helen Dannenforth.”

A voice accused, “I understand you met with Hannah.” Her feet were muddy and her chignon was straggly, so the yin-yang roles were reversed, and Helen, one of the few women renowned for her talents these days, was now the fully grown doppelgänger of her daughter returning from a camping trip.

“I did,” I replied.

Unfortunately, that meant that she or a member of her staff would have to sign off on what I had written before it went to print.

Such a demand was unethical and a bit insulting, I communicated without thinking, simultaneously taken aback by my attitude. I could have told her I no longer planned to publish. Perhaps, I recommended, she or a member of her staff preferred to pen the entire article? I was slightly light-headed during this confrontation, like it was a high. At least now I would be seen by her, albeit negatively. The sentiments expressed by her sister, I said, might strike her as a very welcome repentance.

“I’m guessing she told you she has ultimately overcome the wounding at the core of her identity or guileless id or what have you in order to walk a healing path of forgiveness,” she replied, buoyed by rage. “She also said that the meaning of life is love, am I correct? This isn’t some unsung epiphany. She’s a pathological liar.” Who paid for her indefinite stay at “the Retreat,” essentially a spa where she can whine about how wronged she feels? Helen paid, though she didn’t have to, and Hannah was deemed just fine, perfectly sane, although, she added, extremely manipulative. Who spent that “road trip” with Lily insinuating that Helen had been abusive toward Hannah when they were growing up and so on? The worst, however, was the reminiscing about her pregnancy and manipulating newcomers like me into believing that Hannah is Lily’s “real” mother and that Helen maliciously hindered them from having a relationship.