“It’s eighty dollars a plate.

He wouldn’t even appreciate the truffle oil.”

“Just give him the bread.” Lucienne nudged the basket at me.

“Kids love bread.”

And that was when I saw it: under the edge of the tablecloth, Lucienne was cutting a piece of her tenderloin and feeding it to the French bulldog dozing in her open designer bag.

Her dog was eating filet.

My son had been handed a dry roll.

Chapter 4 — À La Carte

For six years I had quietly covered Lucienne — unpaid rent, overdue cards, one financial disaster after another.

Every time I hesitated, my parents produced the same line: your sister is going through a hard time, Danae. As though I never was.