There was the lie beneath the other lie.

Years earlier, Lorraine had assured Terrence that my pregnancy was a desperate performance.

Now she had told his fiancée the opposite of what was standing in her front hall.

“Whatever happens today,” I said, “please don’t repeat that story around my children.”

“I won’t.”

The door opened.

Terrence stood there with the Christmas card still in his hand.

“Sabrina, Mom wants to talk to you.”