I took one step forward, out of the background and onto the stage.

Frances had already turned her back on Quinn, dismissing her entirely, and strutted to Presley.

She reached into her jacket and hoisted a heavy set of keys on a leather lanyard high into the air.

“And the real grandkid gets a real gift!” she declared, her voice climbing to a triumphant crescendo, and pointed toward the house.

A brand-new, fire-engine-red Jeep Wrangler Rubicon rolled out from behind the garage, piloted by a hired valet, gleaming on the pavement with an absurd silver bow strapped to the hood.

Presley shrieked — a high, piercing wail of pure entitlement — and snatched the keys while Doreen clapped and shouted, “Only the best for my girl!”