At my sister’s wedding reception, my mother demanded I sign over the penthouse my grandmother left me—and when I refused, she s.lapp.ed me in front of half of Philadelphia. She thought that would finish me. Then my grandmother walked in with a lawyer.

I stayed near the back of the ballroom, close to a column wrapped in white roses, and drank seltzer because I knew family gatherings punished lowered defenses. From there, I watched Brianna move through the room in a gown so fitted it seemed part choreography.

Her new husband, Austin, looked handsome in the slightly startled way men look when they realize the event is less about their happiness than their absorption into a display. My mother approved of him because he was ambitious and easy to narrate, fitting perfectly into the framed future she imagined.

I could see Diane building toward something as she surveyed the room, looking for witness density rather than connection. She kept drifting toward the center, calibrating the room’s attention, and once gave me a glance that tightened my chest before I knew why.

Her habits had been the atmosphere of our house for as long as I could remember. Everything in our lives, from report cards to haircuts, arrived raw and left her hands labeled.