My stepmother called just as the day was folding into evening, her voice dripping with a satisfaction so sharp I could almost see the smile stretching across her face. She told me, with deliberate precision, that I would never set foot in the family beach house again—that every lock had already been changed.

Not because it was funny exactly, though part of it was. Diana’s campaign against tackiness had always been one of her purest forms of aggression. My mother liked odd things. Personal things. Shell lamps, chipped pitchers, hand-painted signs from local fairs, Christmas ornaments that looked slightly lopsided because a child had made them. Diana hated any object that could not be defended by price, trend, or the approval of someone richer than she was. Tacky, in her mouth, meant not curated by fear.

I typed back before I could overthink it.

Thank you for telling me.

The reply came after a pause.

I’m not doing it for you.

No, I thought. You were doing it for the part of yourself that had finally gotten tired of being drafted. But motives can mature after actions. I knew that better than most.

I set the phone down.