“Yes, Dad.

Friday morning.” And he let out a slow, irritated breath — I will never forget that breath as long as I live — the breath of a man who has just had an unwelcome complication dropped onto his busy calendar.

“Hannah,” he said, in the patient, reasonable tone he used for the most trivial of scheduling conflicts, “Friday evening is your sister’s thirty-second birthday dinner.

We booked that steakhouse over two months ago.” I thought the crash had already emptied every last thing out of my heart.