And now, five years on, I was the unfair stepmother, the mean lady, the woman whose place at the table had to be renewed like a library book.

I had poured years of real love into that family, and it had all run straight through, as though I were a sieve, leaving nothing behind that anyone in that house felt the slightest need to keep.

And here is the cruelty of it that I have only understood since: they did not fail to see the love.

They saw it perfectly well.

They simply learned that it did not have to be paid for.