And in the half-second before she reached behind that chair, I saw her enjoy it — saw the flicker of real pleasure cross her face, quickly hidden, the pleasure of a person about to do a cruel thing she has been looking forward to.

I have thought a great deal since about what makes a person like that, what hollow place a woman has to be carrying to look at a seven-year-old and feel, not love, not even indifference, but the specific appetite to diminish her.

I don’t fully understand it.

I don’t think I want to.

But I saw it on Gene’s face for half a second on Christmas morning, and I have never again been able to pretend, the way I had pretended for three years, that any of it was accidental.

She reached behind the chair, and she brought out the bag, and she was smiling the whole time, and the smile was the worst part.