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

At first she was perfect manners and lemon bars and a soft hand on your arm when she spoke. She wore neutral silk blouses and tasteful gold jewelry and had a talent for gliding into a room as if she had been expected there even before she was invited. She arrived with a daughter nine years younger than me and an instinct for social climates that would have been admirable if she had used it for anything kind. Khloe was seventeen when they married, tan and glossy and bored, already moving through the world with the light entitlement of a girl who had learned that prettiness could open doors before she learned what to do once inside them.

Vanessa’s gift was not domination in the obvious sense. It was editing.