On those days a particular quality came into her graciousness, a brightness with an edge under it, and everyone in the family developed a kind of animal alertness, quietly hoping the chosen one was not them.

That Christmas morning, walking in with my husband and my daughter and an armful of gifts, I felt that quality in the air at once, and I did the thing I always did, the thing I am ashamed of now.

I hoped it would not be Chloe, and I did not let myself think too hard about the fact that hoping it would not be her was not remotely the same as doing anything to protect her if it was.

Chapter 2 — Caleb’s Girl

To understand what happened that Christmas, you have to understand the quiet, patient, three-year campaign that had led up to it, because Beatrice never did anything as clumsy as an open insult if a subtle one would do.

My daughter Chloe was my child from my first marriage, and from the moment I married Caleb, Beatrice had set about the careful work of keeping her one small step outside the family, without ever once saying so out loud.

She never called Chloe her granddaughter.

Not once, in three years.

The other children were her grandchildren, spoken of with pride, their names on her lips constantly.

Chloe was something else in Beatrice’s vocabulary, something that sounded almost warm until you listened closely.

She was Caleb’s girl.

She was your child, said to me.

She was that sweet little holiday visitor, said to the room, as though my daughter were a guest passing through rather than a member of the family.

That was the genius of it, and I do not use that word admiringly.