At 5:52 p.m., I pulled into my parents’ driveway as my six-year-old daughter, Lily, hummed in the back seat, tapping the heel of one of her shiny shoes against the back of the car. My mother’s porch light was already on, though the April afternoon still held some light, and through the front window, I could see movement in the dining room: people carrying serving platters, my sister’s husband uncorking a bottle of wine, my teenage nephew laughing a little too loudly at something on his phone.
It was supposed to be a simple Sunday family dinner in Naperville, just outside Chicago. My sister Melissa had texted me two days earlier: Come over Sunday at six. Mom’s making roast chicken. No smiley face, no added warmth, but that was typical of her. Since my divorce a year ago, Melissa’s warmth came in carefully measured portions. Still, Lily had spent half the day sketching a portrait for Grandpa Robert, and I’d baked the lemon squares my dad loved so much.
I’d barely unbuttoned Lily’s shirt when the front door opened and my mother, Diane, stepped out, gently closing it behind her.
That alone made my stomach clench.
