I knew the rhythm of this theater.

My mother didn’t just play favorites — she staged them, demanded an audience, made sure the hierarchy of her love was publicly documented and appropriately feared.

I slid my hand into my jacket pocket and felt the cold leather of the key fob I’d brought with me, and I made myself breathe.

Let her play her games, I thought.

I had come armed.

I had built a successful commercial contracting firm entirely outside the family’s orbit, I had liquid cash, and neither my daughter nor I needed one ounce of Frances’s approval.