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

“Bianca,” she said, as if picking up a conversation we’d been having all week. “I’m glad you answered. Khloe just showed me your little beach place. How exciting.”

Little beach place.

The house cost five point six million dollars and sat on some of the most expensive coastline in California, but Vanessa had always known how to reduce things through tone rather than language. She could make achievement sound quaint, independence sound antisocial, and your own home sound like a temporary costume.

“Good evening to you too,” I said.

She ignored that. “Your father and I will come down tomorrow. We’re taking the master, obviously. Khloe saw that gorgeous ocean-view room on the second floor, the one with the balcony, and she absolutely fell in love, so give that one to her. You can use one of the smaller bedrooms in the back. I’m sure you won’t mind. You’ve never been precious about space.”

For a second I thought I had misheard her.