We’ll talk.

New opportunities.

Investments.

We can be a real family, starting tonight.”

I looked at the man who had torn my applications in half when I was sixteen.

I looked at the woman who had spent three decades correcting my posture and my face and my voice.

I looked, last, at my sister, still crumpled in her chair, who had smiled behind her hand while the wine ran down my back.

I felt, looking at Rosalie, something I had not expected to feel, and it was close to pity.