My parents were obsessed with having a “perfect” vacation. When my six-year-old got carsick on the highway, the mask fell. My mother slapped her and shoved a plastic bag at her, screaming, “Don’t ruin my leather seats, you little pig!” I tried to stop her—she shoved me back.

Linda’s expression tightened. “Sarah, why on earth did you dress her like that?”

I lifted my head from my phone, where I’d been quietly checking work emails. “Like what, Mom?”

“That construction-worker yellow,” she sneered. “It clashes with the car. We’re arriving in a Range Rover Autobiography, not a school bus. We’re going to the Grand View Resort. People there have taste. And did you let her eat? Her face looks puffy.”

I inhaled slowly, counting to three. This was the price of peace.
“She’s wearing a raincoat because it’s raining. And she had a small vanilla ice cream at the rest stop an hour ago. It’s a vacation. Kids eat ice cream on vacation.”

“I told you not to give her sugar,” Linda muttered, smoothing her silk skirt as if brushing away my incompetence. “Sugar makes children hyper. And sticky. This car is top-of-the-line. Your father had to use his connections to get it.”

Connections.

I almost laughed.