My stepmother called at 11:47 p.m. on the first night in the beach house I bought with my own money and told me she and my father were moving in the next day, that they were taking the master suite, that her daughter would get the best ocean-view room

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, and I almost dropped the phone because my father never swore when startled. Swearing, for him, belonged to flat tires and market crashes, not domestic life. “No. Bianca, no. She told me you invited us for a long weekend. She said you thought the place would be too much to manage alone at first and you wanted family there while you settled in. I never agreed to move in. And I certainly didn’t tell her she could rearrange your bedrooms.”

I looked out over the dark water.

“You didn’t.”

“No.”

“Did you know Khloe was coming?”

Another pause, heavier this time. “She said Khloe might stop by if she had time.”

If she had time.

I let that settle between us. My father had many flaws, but his version of events had the clumsy incompleteness of truth. Vanessa’s had the smooth confidence of a line practiced before she dialed.

“Do you want to come tomorrow?” I asked.

This time the pause lasted longer.

“Yes,” he said finally. “Now I do.”

“Good.”

“Bianca—”

“I’m fine.”

“I didn’t know she’d called you.”

“I know.”

That sentence seemed to hurt him more than accusation would have.