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storage under the stairs to the center of our table. I know what
this means.
That unicorn was the only gift she’d ever received from the
asshole who just left our house, and she only dusts it off and
displays it when she’s feeling nostalgic and hopeful. Or when
she wants him to think she’s feeling that way. She thinks I don’t
notice these things, but I do.
Rose Michaels-Herron-Wick—my mother doesn’t hyphen-
ate, but I remember our past—glances in the direction of the
mess before meeting my gaze and plastering a smile on her face.
“How are my darling girls?”
I lower them to the floor. “They need a bath, and they’re
probably getting hungry.”
“You didn’t take them to the Tiny E?” She gives me her
best mom-look, but it’s been ineffective for years. “I gave you
money.”
“I used it for lunch, and drinks and snacks to pack the
cooler.” And because I had the girls at the beach from ten in
the morning, and it’s after five now, I add: “What did you think
we were going to eat all day?”
My sisters are at our mother’s side for hugs and kisses.
“You smell like lake.” Rosie scrunches up her nose. “You do
need a bath. Go pick out your bubbles, and I’ll be right there.”
Margaret and Caroline scamper down the hall.
“Oh, God, what a day.” Rosie holds her robe closed. “The
hospital sent me home, but they just called, and they need me
tonight.”
A ball of fire waxes in my head. She is so not going to do this
to me. Not again. Not tonight. I lean against the edge of the
countertop, fold my arms over my chest, and stare her down.
But she’s not making eye contact.

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